


The Broken Dream

by ImpossibleElement



Series: The Dragon's Spell [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragons, Drama, Dreams, Fantasy, Gen, Heroes & Heroines, John is Perfect, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Magic, Movie: Descendants 3, Mystery, POV Alternating, Pirates, Right and Wrong, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is a Mess, Teenlock, The Forgotten Ocean, The Rotten Apple, Villains, What else is new?, it's possible to be both
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25671931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpossibleElement/pseuds/ImpossibleElement
Summary: Something made the rebel pause, once John turned the card meant for his future the shadow that passed across the girl’s face made Sherlock’s insides curdle; her smirk was completely wiped now._____With Moriarty’s warning in mind, Sherlock desperately looks for a way to protect that which he loves, Not knowing the enemy scheming to destroy the kingdom and all it stands for is closer than any of them imagined.SEQUEL TO THE ROTTEN APPLE AND THE FORGOTTEN OCEAN*WORK IN PROGRESS, NOT ABANDONED*____
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Dragon's Spell [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1014522
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue: The Stealer Of Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> This instalment is the third and final part of my Descendants inspired trilogy.
> 
> Disclaimer: This work is loosely based on a plot line of Disney's Descendants Franchise. If you haven't seen it, or don't like it, please know that you can read it and understand everything. None of the actual characters of Descendants appear. For those of you who have seen it, you know where this is going. Also, there are a few nods to the original hidden not very subtly in the narration.

[ ](https://ibb.co/61Lz5dW)

* * *

[ ](https://ibb.co/zSJScP1)

> _ Everyone knows what stealing consists of, appropriating physical property is  
> done by any mediocre criminal these days, yet few are capable of the ruthlessness  
> needed to carry it out to the ultimate of its uses. _

The heavy beaded curtain rolled back and closed behind him, taking with them all notion of the outside world and shutting the visitor inside a brightly lit chamber. He usually wouldn’t be caught wandering this side of the island, —he did have some standards. The sight alone was already an insult to his senses; not to mention the horrid noise coming from the street as you stepped into the abandoned alley— but he had pressing business which needed his attention. The entrance to his destination was enclosed inside a narrow space between the walls, the magic surrounding it prevented noisy civilians to notice it unless you already knew where to find it. 

He took unimpressed steps inside, his tailored shoes thudded on the polished flooring. The room was a minimalistic space, surprisingly fashionable and stylistic, completely at odds with its outside environment. The white walls stretched unblemished towards the end of the room and appeared to not end, even the corners were hidden from sight in the empty space. The guest whirled around in boredom, carelessly sitting on one of the sole pieces of furniture in the entire building. He settled on the modern chair before a glass table at the centre. Another chair was placed opposite him, completely vacant. 

He was ready to become criminally offended at being stood up, already calling for Sebastian, —whom he had left guarding the entrance— just when the man he had gone there to see emerged out from the brightness as if materialising out of thin air. The light clung to his dove grey suit and blended him in with the background. His movements were slow, completely confident, yet there was something strangely distorted about the shadow following him that caught the criminal’s eye, but the illusion was gone as soon as he looked at it directly.

The man sat, as he slouched impatiently on his seat, not having the desire to loose his time circling around present, past and future with a master of foretelling. Said man smiled, and he could detect how such emotion didn’t reach his eyes. If anything, he could respect the mirrored disdain this creature portrayed towards sentiment, if not his uncreative execution. The man slowly drew out a deck of black slate cards from his pocket and offered them over the table. A silent question was made to the other, requesting his permission to begin, and once Jim granted it, the smiled faded and he brought down his right hand over the deck.

The change was instant. 

In just a moment the room went from blindingly bright into complete shadows, only for the darkness to be vanished again shortly after by the vibrant colours alighting the space, every surface ignited as if magic had permeated its essence and left behind a venomous glow that jumped towards its observer, as the surroundings showed their true nature. The tiled floor had been replaced with wood covered with various mismatching rugs. The numerous bookshelves that had appeared around them were stacked with an array of colourful tomes and old curses written in parchment paper; what little Moriarty could see of the walls —where the different lights parted and showed the main structure— was covered in bright ancient symbols that he didn’t care enough to recognise. 

“Choose a card.” The man said, bending his body forwards in invitation. He was not what one would expect, mismatching completely with the new surroundings and very far from the dirty gypsy or charlatan often found on the streets. He was dressed impeccably, spell-blonde hair and beard neatly trimmed and his dead eyes fronted by a pair of fine spectacles that spoke more of dull business than fortune telling. Often times famed of being the source of their owner’s psychic nature. Despite that, he was still the best and most dangerous clairvoyant in the kingdom. 

Jim, nonetheless, was not exactly interested. “I thought this was for business.” He commented. The light show was somewhat fascinating, yes, and the intrigue of possible profit was a tantalising one; however he wasn’t particularly keen on wasting his evening away there, even if sometimes dull sacrifices had to be made in order to engulf the resulting fun. Particularly with criminals like Charles Augustus Magnussen.

“This _is_ business.” The other said, waving a hand to the deck once more, which now showed an intricate design in golden and green on its undrawn pile. 

“Fine.” Jim relented, more out of boredom than actual curiosity. “But seriously,” He said; his pale, spidery hand uninterestedly pulling back the three closest cards and lining them over the table between them. “You need to find a better hobby.” For a moment silence reigned over the both of them as the other’s eyes inspected the results. “So why have I been summoned into this… _charming_ parlour?” He asked. 

Magnussen ignored the question, choosing instead to focus all his attention on the information before him. Everyone knew this is how he gathered all he needed for his infamous blackmails, and still made the mistake of asking —and paying— for a reading; not that Jim was worried the man was stupid enough to try that with him though, there was only one person in the whole kingdom more dangerous than him, and that was only because she had been born with something he couldn’t posses, just like her three-cycle-old purple haired unruly runt. 

“What do you see here?” Charles finally asked, as his fixation with the last card reflected on his angular face like the green glow of the candles covering the edges of the table; painting an unnatural imagery on the gloomy space.

“I don’t care what-” The raven haired started, but his dismissal was quickly shot down as he recognised the other would probably give him nothing if he refused to play along, and then his afternoon would truly had been wasted. “A boring dragon sword?” He commented finally, feeling the pointlessness of the situation wrap its arms around him and suffocate him.

Magnussen regarded him closely, his brow was furrowed but his thin lips stretched into a half smile; clearly feeling himself privy to something he had yet to find out. “This card has shown as the future in every single reading I’ve done lately.” He explained. 

“And that means?” Jim asked, adjusting his left cufflink. His wavering interest landed on the various voodoo dolls hanging from the ceiling. Their big, round, empty eyes and mouth glowed as if souls had been snared inside them. His attention was so drawn to them that he almost missed the other’s answer.

“War.” Magnussen replied. No other information delivered. Just that. As if it were of no consequence whatsoever. 

This time, Jim did turn his face to regard him, his mind already going over every clue and whisper he had heard on the topic as he finally got confirmation of what he long since suspected. Violet had been the one who had found scared citizens attempting to leave the island in secret a few moon-cycles prior, boarding ships and risking a watery grave over what they must have already known was coming, but this was the first reliable —if you could call a dubious fortune teller’s prediction _‘reliable’_ — affirmation that things were escalating beyond their control, despite them having been preparing for this moment for some time. With the hastened timeline, The Mistress of Evil attempting to pop out a suitable spawn that could ensure their victory seemed a bit pointless now. 

“Do we win?” He asked, because what else could he possibly ask that was more important than that? Nothing other was of any consequence but whether they finally succeeded; and how Moriarty could gain an advantage from whichever shape that outcome took. One way or another, King Ben would surely not wait around for long —certainly not the thirteen odd cycles needed for their plan to work— to attack, he was often described as being as hungry for confrontation and blood as any of them were.

“I’m afraid our defeat is imminent.” The other responded, his voice devoid of tone or emotion; nothing that could betray how he felt about the information he was sharing. Perhaps not caring enough either way.

Additionally, Moriarty didn’t care enough not to show his frustration now. “So why this?” He demanded, his lips thinning as he stood from his seat and swatted away the deck from his proximity. “Why does it matter?” The room around them became alive the moment his skin had made contact with the card. As his dark eyes threatened to consume the man who had brought him there without good reason, everything became even brighter, and seemingly more deadly. 

“I have a proposal to make.” The other worded out, passively looking up to Jim from his place in the chair as the chaos surrounded them.

The dark haired man’s demeanour abruptly transformed at the statement, as he turned to regard him. He paused and slid his hands across the table util he was perched forwards, wearing a pleased smirk over his features. “Am I going to blush, Charlie?” He asked, voice light and amused, “What are you offering?” The situation finally straying away from dullness in his eyes and into something he could use. He watched the other attentively while Charles waved a hand at him in dismissal, as if the mere question were pointless, Jim noticed the shadow behind him stretch its spidery arm and snuff out the magic flame of a candle to their left, completely independent form the other’s hands steepled in front of his thin face. 

“Just name your price.” He answered, ever the business man, even in an environment as ridiculously saturated with voodoo magic such as this. “My friends on the other side will deliver it.” For the first time in all the conversation his tone had life laced into it, even if it didn’t quite reach smugness or disdain. But that fact didn’t mean much to James Moriarty, who had already on his side his only true rival for most magnanimous villain in the history of the kingdoms. 

“That bore?” He asked, unimpressed tone once again present at the lost potential of the evening, slouching back down on the chair with a show of rolling his eyes. He knew exactly _who_ that meant. “Sorry,” Jim said, mimicking a sad face as he continued. “I’ve no need for purgatorial souls, or anything else he can give me at the moment.” His dark eyes regarded him as he hoped the other would take the bait.

Magnussen paused, silently pondering something, nodding when he finally placed both hands over the table and raised both eyebrows. The expression looked promising to James as he waited. “What about Violet Holmes’ powers?” He asked and Moriarty’s face stretched into a satisfied smile.


	2. Chapter 1: Greedy For The Worst Outcome

[ ](https://ibb.co/Y2fz9vy)

> _ Greed, one of the parents of all other sins,   
> is essential and applauded amongst villainous acts.  
> Selfish, excessive and often times destructive to the object of desire,   
> and advantageous as a motivation for the insatiable owner. _

He was startled awake, ruthlessly brought back from the fantastical world of horrors to the land of the living. He bolted upright, his breath coming in short gasps as he struggled to get his body under control. He took a short moment to get his heart to stop pounding on his ears and shook away the last horrifying images clinging to his mind. 

To say that this was quickly growing old would be an understatement. Sherlock would probably hate the irrationality of it all, but for _him_ the mystery behind the visions was nothing compared to the real experience. That choking terror that robbed away any desire or ability to function past it, and the way the sensation would always linger on his skin despite being awake. It was getting to a point where he dreaded going to bed at a _‘normal’_ time and instead waited long after Sherlock was already dead to the world, just so he wouldn’t have to think about it as he was falling asleep. 

He sat up as he ran a hand over his features to scratch the sleep from his face. His blue eyes took a minute to adjust to the glaring light of the morning streaming through the delicate curtains of the open window doors to the balcony while he got out of bed and shuffled towards the fresh air. 

Sherlock was standing a few feet away from him facing forwards, wearing a royal blue dressing gown over his usual dark clothes, outlined perfectly by the pale morning sky as his hands rested lightly on the stone railing of the balcony over the royal gardens. John had sometimes caught him like this, silently searching the sea before him as if it would deliver him any sort of answers. He had an idea on why the rebel chose —or needed— to do this, but was hesitant to believe all this doubt was doing him any good. The mystery that plagued him was probably too big to be known.

“If you keep standing there you’re gonna start growing roots.” He commented, a smile present as he leaned on the intricate golden carving of the door frame. Sherlock did not stir, but the blonde was still certain he had heard him. “Not to mention my parents will finally start to wonder how you’re here so late and so early almost every day.” This resulted on an amused scoff from the other, the first real proof that he hadn’t suddenly been turned into a statue. John chose not to wonder whether the dismissal was because he thought his parents were not insightful enough to suspect or because he simply didn’t care if they did. Although the blonde was putting his money on the latter.

He took casual steps and came to stand next to his boyfriend, watching as the kaleidoscope eyes took in the scenery in front of them. “Slept well?” Sherlock asked. The uncertain tone evident for the royal even if he tried to hide it. The rebel let the question hang between them for a moment, then turned, tearing his gaze away from the ocean and fixed it on him, deducing the answer right off his face. They both knew what was happening, even if they did not know the cause, yet the royal despised talking about it, and the violet haired boy, uncharacteristically, had accepted his wishes.

The royal nodded, not fooling anyone at this point, and Sherlock granted him one last look with what appeared to be a mix of worry turned suspicion and twisted once more towards his more pressing obsession. “Not a tentacle in sight.” He sighed, sounding close to disappointed. 

“Lock,” John started, “If Eurus was up to something, we’d know by now.” It was the truth, but by the focus with which the other refused to part away with the task, he could see Sherlock was not as sure about that. “Specially Mike.” The blonde smirked, and the reaction was instantaneous. His smile cheeky as he continued, “Sometimes I feel he knows more than everyone else I’ve ever met combined.” He said, just to nail the point home. 

Sherlock chuckled in derision, “Well, _I_ know how villains think.” He said, his back now straight and his nose turned up in that expression he always wore when he was _definitely_ not brooding. “And I certainly don’t trust E. as far as I can throw her.” The haughty words were punctuated by his eyes darting over the different _‘weak spots’_ on the beach visible from the castle, as the blue-eyed just watched. 

At not finding what he desired, the rebel groaned. “This is useless!” He threw his arms into the air making the sleeves of the dressing gown fan out like wings. “Going into dragon flight would be optimal,” He said, “The view is much better from up there.” 

“Well, you can’t be everywhere at once.” John reminded him, placing one gentle hand over the other’s shoulder, which immediately made the rebel deflate. He could see how frustrated he was growing every day that passed and they had no answers. “Besides, your spell sent her back to The Isle.” John attempted to appeal to his logical ninety three percent, Sherlock himself had said magic worked mostly with intention, and that was clearly his planned outcome. Yet he somehow still doubted whether he had succeeded. “I know it.” He declared. 

“No one on my villain network can corroborate that.” The other mumbled, his knuckles turning white from the strain of clutching the railing as he steamed. 

“Doesn’t mean she’s around here planning a super sneak attack.” The blonde replied, as the silver gazed gave him an expression that told him that’s _exactly_ what it meant. Despite what the rebel or his own best friend may believe, he wasn’t actually stupid; he knew his boyfriend was investigating, and he was certain he was privy to more information than he was letting on. But as long as he didn’t destroy the kingdom in the process the king could wait until he was ready to let him know —or felt like it, which was way more likely. What he couldn’t very much condone was the toll it was taking on their lives. They weren’t exactly light on complications and obligations on the usual, and he was afraid this would be the thing to break them both. 

His thoughts were interrupted when the other spoke. “He’s planning something.” The words left Sherlock’s mouth in a hushed attack, not exactly intended for the witness on which they landed; just released into the world as if keeping them in were no longer possible and would somehow make them more real, more present. 

“He?” The blonde asked, double taking. But the rebel didn’t acknowledge the question, just continued his rant on top of the blonde’s concern. He often wondered how Sherlock and him seemed to speak in different frequencies, but somehow always ended up in the final destination, together right on the same page. Except, of course, when Sherlock was hiding something from him, but that was neither here nor there.

“She will wait until our defences are down to strike.” Sherlock assured, “Obviously.” As if it was something short of inevitable. An expression of familiarity and remembrance passed through his face and the king revelled in the wicked smirk it brought to his face. He may not be able to deduce a person’s life story like Sherlock, but he did know _him_ intimately, and he could recognise exactly when that dangerous spark ignited in his gaze. That lingering satisfaction he got when he knew he had done something bad and it had felt like heaven. The royal didn’t know exactly what it said about him as a ruler —as a _person_ — that he found that part of his boyfriend lovable. The one that didn’t balk at breaking rules and going on unforeseen adventures to destroy or hopefully save kingdoms. That’s exactly what made Sherlock _Sherlock_ and the blue eyed boy would be damned if he attempted to change something that, despite against every moral code or logical sequence, worked so well. Often even in everyone’s favour. 

“Nothing for it,” The rebel said, startling the other from his thoughts as he dusted off the shoulders of his —John’s— dressing gown and smiled cheekily as he walked to the balcony’s double doors. “Let’s go,” He grabbed the other’s wrist and dragged him along into the room. “We’ve got hell to attend.” He said. 

John chuckled and shoved him away playfully, “It’s only a small ceremony to-” He started, attempting to mask the nerves he could feel rising now at the mention of the event. 

“Yes, yes.” The violet haired boy jumped in. Making a show to roll his grey eyes as he grabbed his shoes. It had taken a lot of convincing from the royal to make him accept, specially since it was attached to another royal obligation in which they were both already involved. It almost felt like too much to ask, and that’s not taking into consideration what John had planned to do after all the duties were done. “I wouldn’t even bother if you hadn’t promised I would miss school if-” 

“Wait,” The king halted on the way to the door, suddenly completely aware that his priorities shouldn’t be able to shift so easily, not when one of the smartest people he knew kept telling him they were caught in imminent danger. All other thoughts aside,they at least needed a plan, a social gathering such as this would be the perfect place for something nefarious to take place. God knows it had already happened before. Twice. “What about your sister?” He turned astute blue eyes to him. “Should I call for more guards?”

“And what will they do? Bore her to death?” Sherlock asked, as he wrapped the coat over his slim frame. John glared but didn’t follow him, he still had to get his tailor in to get ready, while the rebel would probably just magic something up at the last minute and still look perfect. He stood behind with arms crossed and waited for the other to elaborate. “No, we wait.” Sherlock said, and the blonde balked at such nerve. 

“Wait?” He asked, frown now prominent over his young morning face. 

“Of course. Targets wait.” Sherlock explained, as if it were ‘ _obvious, John’_. The expression the king gave him must have shown his annoyance at the tone because the other laughed and smiled benignly at him. “Not to worry, _my king_.” The violet haired boy assured as he turned the knob of John’s room towards the east hall, which he used to avoid any unwanted encounters with someone else from the castle. “Whatever it is, I’ll know about it.” He said, not cryptically at all.

“How exactly?” The blonde asked at the other’s back as he was already halfway out the golden doors. The rebel paused and turned to the expecting royal, and with sparkling eyes and shallow breath he winked at the other, only to disappear from the room a second later, leaving a bewildered John staring after him. 

* * *

The ocean which he had been inspecting got transformed instead into a sea of pastel clad royals standing expectantly under the beaming sun. The courtyard in front of the castle was already full when Sherlock finally made his way out the adorned double doors. John’s father and founder of the United Kingdom of Auradon carved into achanging statue at the centre of it, towering over the witnesses, and surrounded by vivid vegetation of colourful blue and golden roses. All of it framed a small platform that had been built for this very occasion, complete with screens and sound system. Every single citizen had attended, or at least it appeared so to the violet haired boy when he felt the heat grace his pale features as soon as he took one step outside.

Normally, he couldn’t care less for making an appearance at such social and political events, but the king had personally _demanded_ —with no hope of argument— that he was to attend and behave, even if the both of them knew he could perhaps make him comply with the former, but the latter was a laughable impossibility. Of course, now seeing how crowed it really was, the rebel really considered if facing John’s wrath after wouldn’t actually be worth making a runner. 

As he was pondering the option, a figure came to stand next to him. Hindering the exit he still didn’t know whether he wanted to take; and to make everything just _ridiculously_ ‘better’ he realised it was a man wearing a light grey and gold royal suit. Bright ginger hair and pompous attitude impossible to be mistaken.

“Kind of you to grace us with your presence, little brother.” He commented, and said violet haired boy did his best not to curse at his thwarted opportunity. Having been spotted, all hope of avoidance was now lost. His eyebrows came together in what was definitely not a scowl. “And only— thirteen minutes late,” Mycroft continued, his voice held a note of amusement despite the reprimand —not that it was any better for the rebel who just wished to get all of it over with. “This must be a new record.”

“John asked.” The other replied as he kept walking towards the centre, hoping to shake the other off; leaving him the option of rushing to follow after him. Unfortunately he did, so Sherlock placed both his hands inside his pockets as he sighed once he accepted there was no escaping Mycroft’s customary half conversations. If there was one thing that he could always rely on it was that his brother would choose the least convenient moment to wring a dubious reflection out of his brain.

He had considered lying about it all, skip the soul searching entirely, but they both knew there was no more transparent of a reason for being there than the king just requesting for it. It was a moot point to deny it. Both of the ginger eyebrows raised when his brother turned to look at him, but he quickly settled on acceptance, as if he hadn’t expected anything different. “Yes, I supposed he did.” The advisor said, usual condescension in place. “Did he ask anything else?”

The question caught the other off guard. Stopping his advance and making his silver eyes narrow in suspicion. He knew this was not merely throw-away chit chat. No, Mycroft was too smart to waste words for that, so what was he attempting to monitor? “Was he supposed to?” He demanded, searching for an answer even though with his brother, a direct one would be like hoping for rain in the Sand Lands. All thoughts of the ceremony vanished from his mind as he posed the query.

“I was half expecting I would have to hunt you down again.” The other said instead, and Sherlock fumed in frustration. “Find you trying to set fire to the kingdom.” Forget your royally planned name-day celebration in favour of a much more interesting, slightly flammable, potion experiment _one time_ and his brother was sure to never let him live it down. The explosion hadn’t even been that big.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” The violet haired said, lifting his arms as in demonstration.Completely aware the people around them were witnessing his presence too as he haughtily walked. “Plus, why are you on my case?” He said. “I graduated _Goodness 101_ with a perfect score.” And it was true, John had been over the moon the day Lady Hudson had announced he was officially the first reintegrated member from The Isle to Auradon society. Apparently, it had been touch and go for a moment.

“Cheating doesn’t count, Sherlock.” But clearly it had been too good to be true for Mycroft. He was not wrong, of course, but the rebel had rather hoped he had managed to fool him too. Lestrade was still bitter about it all every time the subject came up. It was hilarious.

“Well, some miracles are too big even for Auradon.” He replied, and watched as the corners of his brother’s mouth curled upwards against his wishes. If anything, making Mycroft break his diplomatic composure in public —which he _loathed_ — was a victory in any of Sherlock’s books. 

The ginger seemed to have had enough with the conversation then, letting his brother continue on his own to the small stage. Sherlock was grateful to have the last steps alone before he was expected to face all of Auradon’s subjects. Even if Sherlock had always been partial to having attention turned towards him, he was mostly used to that attention coming packaged as terror or loathing; this thing closer to _‘admiration’_ was dreadfully new and cumbersome, specially if it didn’t come from deep blue eyes.

As if plucked out of his very own thoughts, John chose that moment to appear next to him. Joining him in the small steps to the platform, in the same exact spot they met all those moon cycles before, and wearing a blue and golden suit that would look laughable on anyone else. Sherlock smirked as the blonde beamed at him and failed to comment on his tardiness. He just extended his hand with a smile and climbed up with him.

Once they saw them, the crowd became louder, as Lady Hudson did her best to introduce them above the roaring cheers. The violet haired boy knew better than to trust those, though. 

After a few failed attempts, John requested the microphone from her, and she smiled in both fondness and gratitude as she relinquished it. Clearly not immune to the king’s powers either. “What’s up, Auradon!” He said, his charming smile big as he casually put one hand inside his pocket. “Thank you so much for coming out to welcome the new arrivals.” Sherlock stood aside and waited, amazed at the ease in which John could just _be_ around this people. How very normal he looked up there. He tried and failed to deduce once more whether this was because John had been groomed for this very purpose since he was a toddler, or if it was just him. The way people just gravitated towards his warm and inviting personality. 

However, the rebel was rudely wrenched out of this reverie by a mumble to his left. “Not like we had a choice.” They said bitterly, but even when he turned around, Sherlock was unable to gather who it had been. Nothing such as this had ever happened outside of the island; not a single clue had been left that anyone in the kingdom was against John or his reign personally —the three of them were a different story— but as the king continued without a thought over the stage, speaking excitedly with his subjects about something which the silver gazed boy didn’t care enough to take in, he decided to ignore the incident. He supposed there would always be an idiot who wanted to feel funny or special.

“I hope it will work out quite well as it did for the first three,” The blonde said turning to look at him, a hundred different meanings behind his statement as the smile he wore was almost enough to be contagious for Sherlock. “And together take Auradon into a new age of prosperity.” He declared, still not breaking eye contact with him. The approval to his words resonated on his ears even as John took his leave and enthusiastically grabbed him by the arm to guide him down from the platform. 

“Thank you for coming, Lock.” John said once they were alone, —or rather, as as alone as you can be surrounded by a crowd of a hundred other people. His blue eyes shone as he grabbed the rebel’s hands. Sherlock looked down to where they were joined and where the king’s ring was placed firmly on his finger now, a deliberating frown forming on his brow at what he could read on the other’s tone. The violet haired boy couldn’t explain why, but somehow he was certain John was about to do something reckless. “Listen Sherlock, will you maybe-” He started, but the question died on his throat as they were approached by Molly, with the former king and queen in tow.

“You were amazing!” Molly exclaimed, wrapping her overly excited —and atrociously clad— arms around John. The other laughed freely and hugged her back, his eyes glinting with amusement as he stared at Sherlock over her shoulder. The other shrugged and raised an eyebrow as he stuffed his hands, now bereft of the blonde’s, inside his leather coat.

“We’re so proud of you both.” John’s mother said, placing a delicate hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, the sensation was akin to alien for the rebel, but he had come to realise his boyfriend’s parents were as impossible to avoid. Must be genetic. The former king nodded in agreement.

“Don’t be.” Sherlock stated. “I didn’t do anything.” His tone was flat but it made the others laugh in dismissal. “It’s true!” He insisted, a scowl already forming on his face. He was not trying to be modest; hell, he didn’t even know whether it was physically _possible_ for him to even attempt such an emotion. “John, tell them.” He turned, seeking an ally in this outrage towards his person.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John countered, an incredibly smug smirk on his lips in the face of the rebel’s betrayed, murderous glare. Goes to show, save their royal arses once and now they’ve got no respect for you. 

“Nonsense.” Lady Hudson’s voice came from their right, joining them in the conversation. Sherlock chose the moment to slink back unnoticed, taking a few steps away from the group as they talked. He allowed John a moment to stay there and mingle as he took a break from socialising. Friendly hugs and empty amicable conversation was more the blonde’s area, and he was often delighted to participate in it, which the rebel deduced would be better without him hanging over his arm scowling and urging them all to just leave them alone already. 

He walked around the gardens for a bit, randomly deducing the royal’s dirty little secrets and making an entertainment out of figuring out which of them were sleeping with each other. Speaking of cheating and lying, Mary’s grandmother was there, with her back to him, quietly ranting to Anderson, of all people, about how a lifetime of status was now gone, as the plans of Mary becoming John’s queen were lost; perplexed at how someone would rather have a villain on the throne instead of her. Not that Sherlock was in any way close to sitting in such a chair. 

The violet haired boy pretended to be immersed on a different conversation a few feet away, but stayed close enough to hear what she had to say about his and the king’s life choices. “She has no idea what I have done for this family.” She said, her acidic tone familiar from the last time he had spoken with her. “What _her mother_ has done.”

_‘Anderson’s dad, apparently.’_ Sherlock mused, rolling his eyes. Even with the title of noble family, the Morstans clearly knew nothing of actual loyalty, and that’s coming from someone who used to con and hustle for a living. “She could hold a prince in her sleep.” Lady Margaret continued, practically fuming as Philip just stood there in bewilderment. 

“Don’t you think she feels bad enough, Aunty Margaret?” He asked, his hands crossed over his chest. The rebel was unsure on whether he enjoyed seeing Anderson so scared or not, given the circumstances; but the woman was close to spitting fire herself. She turned around and promptly walked away from him, muttering _‘What is wrong with these people?’_ as she elbowed her way through the crowd and out of the celebration. 

Greg’s overjoyed voice interrupted his careful observation of her departure. “All bow to his Royal Purpleness.” He said, and when the silver gazed turned to regard him, the other was reverencing while Irene chuckled next to him. Ever since the Cotillion Lestrade had made teasing him about it his sole personal mission.

“Piss off.” He answered, shoving at his arm to stop him. Janine and Mary joined in with delighted expressions and laughter of their own, as they all remained ignored by Sherlock; he silently wondered at all the choices that had led him to said situation.

Greg stood back up, “As you wish, my liege.” He commented, a cheeky smile over his lips and the same hopeful eyes he had worn whenever they actually managed to pull a heist in their earlier cycles. The scowl remained over the violet haired boy’s brow, but he was helpless to stop the smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. 

“Annoying peasants.” He chose to bite back haughtily, somehow growing amused by the ridiculousness. This was most probably all John’s fault. He was clearly rubbing up on him too much.

“No, but seriously, you two were great.” Janine said, one hand over he hip and the other curled on one of Irene’s arms. The statement obvious even as it left her mouth. He couldn’t exactly refute that something about John and him just worked. This perfect brand of disaster; the two of them against the rest of the kingdom, it seemed.

“Yes, congratulations.” Mary, clad in a very soft pink cocktail dress commented; one hand coming up to place a strand of perfectly blonde short hair behind her ear, while she regarded him. Sherlock nodded and waited, hearing John’s voice in the distance urging him to get a move on, they were running late already. He turned to Mary to make his excuses and she smiled. “You won him fair and square.” She said.

Sherlock’s half smile vanished as he was tugged to leave. He turned his head as he walked away to look at her with silver, analysing eyes. Something in what she said seemed to cling to him. It wasn’t until they had all climbed into the car and driven away towards the magical bridge towards The Isle of the Lost, that he remembered he had failed to answer her. 

* * *

The moment they crossed the border Irene couldn’t help but thinking about how quickly things can change. Just a few moon cycles prior she and her friends had lived there, had been one of those faces among the crates and colourful graffiti, leading a life of crime and mischief, never even imagining that particular situation changing —much less so drastically and so swiftly— and now, what appeared just seconds after, she was returning to it, not as another villainous citizen, but as support turned flesh. The king acting exactly in her wishes.

“Creepy, huh?” Greg asked from her left, as he stretched over her to glance through the car’s window at the dystopian landscape. His bare arms supporting his weight on the seat as Irene swatted him away. She didn’t answer, but felt she didn’t really need to. Lestrade, more than anyone in the world, could understand how bizarre the sight alone could be. Her life in Auradon felt that way too, sometimes, stuck in the space between a dream and memory, when she stopped enough to ponder it. The girl knew something fundamental had shifted for her —and she suspected for Greg as well— the moment they had steeped out of the limo that first day and seen the entirety of Auradon for the first time, and a different perspective she had never been allowed to even contemplate was unfolded before her — for Sherlock that change had happened a little later, the instant his silver eyes had met ocean blue. However, the Isle will forever remain as the place where they came from, _what_ they were in essence. Inside each of them and impossible to shake off, —not that she would ever want to.

The car was parked on an open alley, crates and rows of hanged fabric giving it a distinct character, and one of the more public spaces on the island, right after where the main entrance used to be, where now only a destroyed half bridge remained. The location had been strategically chosen by Sherlock’s brother, since, unlike the time they had been looking for said violet-haired boy, their intention was not to remain hidden at all. Consequently, a crowd had already gathered around them even before they vacated the vehicle. Their interested faces watching them through the tinted windows as they waited for the arrival of the king, like kids at a sweets shop. Irene then smirked her red lips at the fact that she could now make that comparison. 

She was completely aware, however, that not all present —in fact quite near half of them— were in no way thrilled that they were there, specially considering what they had gone there to do. Even their mere existence seemed to piss all of them off. They always stood at the back, looking on in jealousy every time they managed to find themselves there, exclaiming an obscenity at them here or there, sick with envy and resentment at their fortune, translating it instead as treason of the cruelest of sorts. 

Despite all of that, the girl with the long indigo hair, and iconic short dress stepped out of the car with the cheekiest of smiles and eyes that spoke of hundreds of secrets to which no one but her was privy. Proud of where she was born and what they were doing, showing that perhaps they shouldn’t be ashamed of being considered Islandriff-raff. She would lie were she to say she didn’t enjoy the attention they had gathered since the whole ordeal had started, though. The three of them had become somewhat of a household name. Nothing much, it’s not like they had streets named after them or anything, but she had seen the various posters and graffiti in their honour over the rotting walls all across the island. She had to admit her favourite part was seeing Sherlock’s disgusted grimace whenever they encountered one of them featuring his equally scowling face. 

Her steps were confident as they approached the kids standing at the far end of the clearing, some ratty bags and old suitcases next to each of them, as the varying levels of hopeful expressions broke out with every inch that brought them closer. None of their parents in sight, —which she didn’t think was such as surprise, since she had been back on the isle multiple times the last moon cycles and not once had her own mother bothered showing up. 

Irene wrenched herself out of the bitter notion and smiled the moment Archie spotted them and then proceeded to carelessly drop all his belongings and run as fast as he could until he collided with her body, his thin arms circling around her waist tightly. She remembered his pure and innocent elation the moment she had announced his name as next on the line to attend to Auradon; once the six names had been listed, Archie had all but jumped up and down in excitement; and judging by the death grip he had on her now, the delight had not abated one bit in the week it took them to return for them. She may have been a tad biased when she had picked him, but she supposed the island value of selfishness was one thing she didn’t see changing all that much in the future.

John greeted all of them warmly, still struggling not to act as if he were expecting someone to jump him the second he turned his back. Completely a fish out of the water; but in his defence, he _was_ getting better at navigating the Isle in all its ways, confident young man as he is, —and accustomed to a greater sort of terror wrapped in purple package— people seemed to be warming up to him somewhat too. Last time, they had only stolen his wallet. 

What little sun could pierce through the dome was beating down on them, marking a exceptionally warm day —for Isle standards— as the others finally approached them, Lestrade and Sherlock very much walking like they own the place as had been tradition since they were all very small, the three of them clad in leather and boots, scaring whoever managed to get in their way. Now, they were there offering that freedom to someone else, a chance to choose for themselves. 

“Did you pack all your stuff?” Greg asked them, his fingerless gloves picking some dubiously bagged items up for them. The younger recruits just nodded dumbly, seeming to already be taken by him. However, the ones about their own age didn’t appear particularly impressed. She couldn’t blame them, they had been sceptical at first too. 

“ _Just_ your stuff, right?” John was quick to stress, the kid he was helping just laughed and hoisted up the backpack over his shoulder, answer clearly not forthcoming. Irene pressed her lips in an attempt to hold in her chuckle at the blonde’s alarmed expression. 

As they talked, she saw Sherlock wander away from the group for a moment, while everyone else was busy carrying possessions to the cars. He casually approached a street kid, standing there expectant but not seeming terribly excited. He extended a golden bill, and then stashed away in his coat the piece of paper he got as exchange, careful that none of the other attendees saw him. Irene shook her head in recognition as Archie rambled on excited, but she didn’t stray her sight from her violet haired friend. 

She had seen him do the exact same thing a hundred times before, with various homeless villains over the cycles they had lived there. But lately, he appeared to have started again, every single time they had visited after Eurus; and perhaps Sherlock thought nobody had noticed, but for all of his deceit and manipulation skills, he failed to notice he sometimes could be as subtle as a hand grenade. Something probably not good was going to come out from this, —him apparently physically unable to stay out of trouble for long— the indigo haired girl concluded as she adjusted the multiple bracelets on her arm, but she refrained from involving herself. She would find out soon enough.

Two other young villains approached Archie, and Irene was finally released in favour of their awkward goodbye. They appeared quite close, clearly some of the street kids that visited him at the colour shop, all mismatched clothes and attitudes too big for their ages; they somehow reminded her of them when they were younger. “We have to go now.” She placed a hand over the kid’s shoulder and saw him hesitate to turn around. “You’ll see them soon, okay.” Irene assured, confident that she would put these two, —whoever they were— on the next list. “I promise.” She said, to Archie’s big, hopeful gaze. Her plan was to return there so many times they would all be sick of their faces by the end. The boy waved the others off and stood back as he turned to Irene in uncertainty. The indigo haired girl winked at him in encouragement and that seemed to be all he needed to grow the courage to take a step forward again and embrace his friends goodbye.

Sherlock returned, haughtily strutting as they all approached the car together, Greg all but carried the youngest one now attached to his bicep with a death grip and started loading everything up. Next to her, John seemed to have his own problem. “Here,” He extended his hand. “Let me take this for you.” The blonde offered, but the girl was clearly not having any of it. John turned then to look at Irene, silent plea for help in his blue eyes when she saw him. This had been one of the toughest choices; they had made the selection with the sole reason that they all agreed she could use a bit of Lady Hudson’s _Goodness 101_ —well, the violet haired had nodded absentmindedly, the same contribution as he had had with all the others—. John extended his arm once more, insistent on being hospitable in any way, but the only answer he got was rolled eyes and a heavy thud as the girl raised the bag herself and hurled it moodily inside the trunk, only to brush past them as she walked towards the front. Sherlock laughed loudly at that. 

They all placed what was left inside and climbed in the limousine once more. This time significantly more crowed. She settled gracefully on her seat next to the brunette little boy, and saw the figures of the ones left behind getting smaller in the distance through the rear window, something bitter settling in her stomach. She couldn’t really shake the wish to just bring all of them over and be done with it already. With one last look, she turned her head and addressed Archie once more, hopeful that maybe one day soon she would.

* * *

Sitting at the back of the limo, the town brick walls and rubbish bins in alleys rushing by outside the windows, Sherlock watched John try his hardest to connect with the training fortune teller they had picked, who currently was ignoring all and any attempt the blonde made to start a conversation. The rebel found himself half smiling at John’s stubbornness as he made yet another try to get her to open up to him even if he knew it was completely hopeless. Villain kids weren’t exactly known for their people skills. 

Across from them, the very exception to the fact was droning on endlessly about all the things he wanted to try once they arrived at the kingdom. Irene nodded her head at Archie, promising to make at least some of them come true to the best of her abilities. The boy didn’t seemed like he particularly cared whether an answer was being given, as he continued to spew excited wishes with shortness of breath. Ice cream, swimming, royal gardens, you name it; he wanted it all. Sherlock was actually proud of how many demands he was already making, he was going to keep Irene and the royals busy for _weeks._

It had been decided, mainly by Mycroft and John, that the kids would stay at the palace like them, the younger ones under the dutiful care of Lady Hudson —and Molly voluntarily— until they were old enough to get around on their own. But Irene had asked for Archie to reside with her in the small _‘castle’_ —as she liked to call it— she had bought with the money of the unsuspecting royals that decided it was a good idea to pour out their secrets and sexual preferences to someone who was somewhat dubious at best. Nevertheless, the brunette boy was over the moon with the decision. 

John slouched down in surrender, the weight of his body resting over most of Sherlock’s side as he silently sighed in frustration. The violet haired allowed the action, —not because he liked it of course, and completely not leaning in to it for a fraction of a minute—and raised an eyebrow at the other. John frowned, but his face seemed more disappointed than angry. Sherlock shifted his gaze and gestured towards the girl, now shuffling a deck of very low quality cards with her deft fingers, and nodded. The blonde’s expression immediately alighted again with new innocent hope as he straightened up to ask. “May I get a reading?” His words were calm and sure, hiding well the excitement he got when the girl considered it with an intrigued smile and extended her hand for him to pay first. John eagerly reached for his wallet —which he had managed to keep this time— and took out several bills. She was so delighted she didn’t hesitate to offer her cards to him. Sherlock chuckled with amusement and approval, as the blue-eyed squeezed his hand tightly in half-scolding. 

The triumph the king now exuded was palpable and only grew when she started talking about his adventurous childhood. Declaring him a born leader and assuring he had set in motion something way bigger than what he could yet understand. All vague, obvious things that any other mortal could have told you obviously, since there was no way for a real magical reading under the dome. Yet something made the rebel pause, once John turned the card meant for his future the shadow that passed across the girl’s face made Sherlock’s insides curdle; her smirk was completely wiped now. At first, he believed her to have made some sort of mistake, amateur as she was, but the sudden nervousness spoke more of unwillingness to say something she knew the king would not like. 

After a pause, she said, “You’ll be a wise and brave king.” The lie as insipid and transparent as the water filling the ocean. The blonde didn’t appear to notice it though, beaming and turning to look at him proudly as if saying _‘see, I told you,’_ in the most John fashion there ever was; it made the silver-gazed’s stomach clench even more. 

Not wishing to be the one to extinguish that mirth on the other’s face, he rolled his eyes in mock exasperation and sighed, “Boring…” He commented, as he leaned away half-heartedly to watch the imagery change through window. A slight shove on his shoulder was what he got for his troubles.

“The cards never lie.” The girl —of whom Sherlock hadn’t bothered to learn the name— said, the hollowed out sound resonating inside his skull. The pieces were falling like rain on him now, but somehow the whole picture kept alluding him. What exactly had he allowed Moriarty to do to their lives?

As he pondered the problem that had kept him from sleeping for moon cycles, he saw the barrier open for them to pass. Knowing full well how many Auradon citizens —some specific ones having even said it aloud in his very presence earlier— wished the only reason they were opening said dome would be to put _them_ back where they belonged, not letting more villains out. He supposed that was inevitable, snobby idiots like them would never get to experience the reality of anything even if it jumped on them and yelled _‘boo!’_. 

The translucent magic of the dome swirled to join again in the middle as they departed, but just as it was about to close completely a hand reached out, and with supernatural strength kept the hole wide enough for the other hand to stick out the opposite side of the barrier, presenting a vibrant blue ember in its grip; menacing under the natural sunlight. 

“Stop the car!” The rebel barked. His long legs almost tangling as he hurried to step out of the vehicle. The others were quick to follow him, and Irene ordered the driver to lock himself and the kids inside the car after them. 

His strong hands teared the opening wider bit by bit as he sent bursts of blue fire from the stone. Terrified screams stemming from the multitude behind him. Sherlock could recognise the figure, even if most of it was covered in so dark a cloak that almost nothing could be seen from underneath: his suspected executioner for the ritual in the woods, and for which he had been searching all this time there in all his terrible glory. The real architect was of course currently rotting inside a cell, locked away inside his own mind.

“He’s trying to escape!” Greg exclaimed, rushing forward in an attempt of making collision with him and releasing his hold over the dome. But he never even got close, a vibrant flame dashed to him in a blast, striking him on the arm. He fell to the ground of the bridge, griping his shoulder with an expression of unadulterated pain. 

Sherlock fumed and promptly turned, his cheeks burning with wrath as he felt urgency travel his bones. He swiftly circled his thin long arms over John’s shoulders, and as soon as the other placed a supportive hand on his waist, he let go. The energy rushed out of him as The Dragon shot out towards the sky in a flurry of purple lights burning with the same intensity with which he did everything. His mortal body slumped unconscious in the king’s arms.

Somehow, the noise inside his head seemed louder than the last time as he felt the humanity leave him. The strange reality taking a second to grab hold of his soul as he soared over the bridge and the water both. The Dragon could see the figure’s piercing blue eyes settle on him as a smirk grew in the bottom half of his face that wasn’t covered in shadow. The action threw the rebel off for a moment, but glancing down at the others staring up at him pushed aside all other thoughts from his intent and drew him to focus on the shadow.

His first instinct was to attack; and he did, sending a physical curse forward. The violet cluster of light reaching its destination in haste, but not managing to achieve much in terms of destruction, the dome did prevent most of his magic from going anywhere but away into the air. His second attempt was more precise and was aimed solely at the only exposed part of his enemy, but as soon as it hit its mark on the figure’s hands the ember alighted anew and latched onto him, a visible link locking the spell with him too, refusing to let him go. 

Magic was rushing out of him in tides, what he had felt on the forest that night was nothing compared to this relentless brutality. The blue stone attempting to drink him down to the last drop. Life was waning now too, the grip he had on The Dragon slipping from his fingers as the figure snickered a distorted laugh in the distance; if he didn’t do something, he was about ready to plummet down from the sky any second. 

His unnatural gaze shifted down, and could vaguely discern John holding his body in the ground, doing his best to keep him alive with probably no hope of success. Sherlock tried reigning in his magic, shutting off the incantation, _something_ , but the other’s spell was too strong and rendered him helpless to prevent it.

With every second his power was diminishing, fogging his vision as he saw Irene drag Greg up. The both of them ran towards the man, distracted as he too was currently locked in the chasm. Sherlock barely had time to manage decreasing his own grip on it when the others collided with what they could reach of the body through the barrier and sent him flying backwards once more under where no magic could help him. Severing the link completely.

The hold was relinquished at once; so violently it forced Sherlock to revert abruptly into his humanoid form. Barely letting him catch a breath as his gray eyes opened and a horrifying screech was ripped off the creature from his insides. John’s face was there, hovering above him with concern painted all over it as he extended cool, tan hands and pushed the violet curls back from his sweaty forehead. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, as Sherlock made himself stand up despite the blonde’s protestations and the pain searing inside his chest. His figure significantly less menacing inside the black leather as he haunched forward. Walking unnaturally towards the barrier, where the shadow had already vanished on the other side, leaving behind the dark cloak as the sole clue to what had happened. The crowd of faces that had witnessed it from the other side of the dome having ran away already.

“You’re safe.” John assured from beside him. His voice was calm, but it was laced with an undercurrent of so much fear that it cancelled out the veracity of his statement. Sherlock didn’t turn, gaze locked at the heap of cloth discarded on the floor. The arm wrapped around his middle doing nothing to abate the nauseous feeling in his stomach. 

He vaguely recognised steps approaching them both as he stared. “Whoever that was, he’s back where he belongs.” Irene said as they reached them, toeing the line between angry and weary. Believing Sherlock had no idea against whom they were competing; the rebel was unsure how correct she was.

“Yeah, for now.” Lestrade muttered through gritted teeth, refreshingly honest in his outrage. The grip on his injured shoulder abating even if it remained stiff in movement; but Sherlock had no time to converse, he had been an idiot and had allowed this to go on for long enough, and something, somehow, was going to give.

When the violet haired boy made no apparent effort to move or answer to any of them, focus fixed ahead instead, the blonde hesitated. “We should go.” He said, attempting to tug him back towards the limo and its safety. Irene and Greg already climbing inside as John stayed and waited. 

The set of Sherlock’s jaw was tightly locked, and he could feel his lips ache as he pressed on them. He didn’t answer, not able to face John’s expression at the moment. He took one last look at the cloak and the barrier and turned around. “Call Mycroft.” He said, as his own coat billowed behind him while he stalked towards the car.


	3. Chapter 2: A Lie For A Kingdom

[ ](https://ibb.co/Rg15825)

> _ There are multiple types of lies, and multiple sorts of liars,   
> but it takes a really skilful villainto deceive deliberately and with intent.   
> Lying can get you anywhere and anything,if you know how to do it right. _

The sun outside his bedroom’s double windows was already hiding behind the horizon. The sky painted different hues of rose gold and lilac in a beautiful way that John was incapable to appreciate at the moment. His hands were curled in fists and his jaw hurt from grinding his teeth so much. The sleep he was already losing before this seemed like a distant dream now. No way was he going to rest again when this was hanging over their heads. 

“People are officially panicking.” Mike said, his impeccable suit jacket perched over a chair clashing completely with his voice, which he still managed to maintain diplomatic even in the circumstances. The others in the room displayed varying states of distress, culminating with Sherlock, who was locked staring out the window, barely participating in the conversation, his mind entirely fixed on the gloomy island across the ocean. So still in his reflection John would have thought he had been turned into stone but for the drumming of his fingers.

“Do we have any idea who that was?” Lady Hudson said, wringing the fabric of her soft blue dress in her lap; action that reminded the king so much of Molly. “Sherlock?”She asked. “Was it Eurus?”

It was a good question, but the violet haired boy stayed silent for a second, one arm crossed over his chest and his other hand in front of his mouth. “Worse.” He finally answered, his concentration breaking for a moment to look towards the blonde’s direction, but still avoiding eye contact. Only to return to the same position a second later.

“We can’t have a villain on the loose,” His mother supplied, holding tightly to his father’s hand. John squeezed the bridge of his nose as he pondered the horrible possibilities that could come from that. “People will never want to leave their homes again.” She said, and it was true. Some citizens were already frightened beyond belief, this could break the kingdom they all had worked to build.

“Moriarty, Eurus, and now this?” He said, wanting so much to let his body fall on his red armchair, but he was unable to sit still for now. Immobility had always been an impossibility for him when worried, and this situation took the cake in that category. Not to mention he was still quite disturbed at seeing Sherlock so shaken. Thankfully Lady Hudson had assured them Greg’s wound was superficial and he would be okay in no time.

His royal advisor nodded, still going through the files they had on them. “It appears to be that way.” He said, and John was not exactly thrilled at the tone of defeat he heard beneath all that intelligence. 

“Every time we open the barrier we’re exposing everyone to danger.” His father, the last member of their makeshift counsel, was visibly angry; as was his usual response to anything that did not go his way; although right now the blonde could very well sympathise with the sentiment, even if he was very aware of the former king’s opinion on his proclamation in the first place. 

“So what do we do?” The blonde asked, looking for support since he was honestly stumped at how to fix the situation. His priorities impossible to be met when they knew so little of what was actually happening. “How do we protect the kingdom?” His blue eyes darted around the room, settling on the slender figure that Sherlock cut behind the window’s light. 

The boy must have sensed his attention and murmured, “To my understanding there’s only one way of guaranteeing their safety.” He said, not breaking his position in the slightly. When he didn’t elaborate further, John turned to his best friend, since he appeared to understand fully what the meaning behind that was. 

“There can’t be any more going in and out on a whim.” Mycroft explained, twisting the royal golden ring on his finger. John was not good at deduction as either of them; —he was not deluded, he admitted he was close to a mumbling idiot compared to the Holmes,— but he could read the hesitation and dread on the action.

“What do you suggest then?” He asked, the collar on his shirt constricting his airflow as he fumed, he was one hundred percent certain that he was not going to like —more like despise greatly— what the answer would be. 

Mike saw the recognition right away, “We limit the options.” He said any way. Never one to sugar coat the logical truth when his friend needed it. Trait that made him the best and most trustworthy advisor he could ever hope to have, even above his intellect, and which was now royally pissing him off. “Close the barrier. For good.”

“No.” John stated. No other words needed. Just no. 

“John.” His boyfriend was suddenly turned towards him, an expression unreadable on his face as he stared with his big, draconian, silver eyes. He took a step in his direction, but the blonde backed away, feeling personally attacked by them even considering such a thing.

“No.” He repeated. There was no way that was happening. He hadn’t spent a whole life-time working for this to now give up at the first sight of villainy trouble, —or third time, more accurately—. It was of no consequence. Not. Happening. “I won’t.”

“John,” The violet haired approached once more, his hands up and mouth tight. His name sounded heartbreaking spoken like that. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but Mycroft’s right.” He said as he stood before him. “I can’t find Eurus,” The sincerity of his admission painted all over his slightly hunched frame, speaking low enough to give the illusion of privacy. Clearly feeling personally responsible for everything going wrong in the realm. When this was over the blonde would have to have a talk with him about placing responsibilities over his own shoulders which were not his fault or duty. “But I _did_ find evidence someone has been placing powerful spells all over the kingdom.” He said, “Something is coming for me, for _all of us._ ” He continued, not taking a single moment breathe. “I’m starting to think it isn’t just Eurus. Moriarty told me-”

This made John pause, he certainly did not need this conversation to include _him_ too at the moment. “ _Moriarty_ told you?” He cut him off. “ _When_ was that, exactly?” He demanded.

“I-” Sherlock, at least, had the decency of appearing slightly caught. “Went to see him.” He said, his eyebrows raising as his face transformed into one of haughtiness. Almost as if saying _‘yes, I did it, what are you going to do about it?’_ John battled against the urge to either chin him or break down in frustration in his arms. “I needed to know, okay? I can’t be the only one to notice nothing in our lives makes sense lately.” His words were turning sharp now, bordering on emotional.

“So now we’re taking ruling advice from a criminal?” The king closed his arms over his chest, his face warming with anger, even if he couldn’t yet decide to where it was directed. The others grew more worried and increasingly more nervous as they witnessed the exchange growing louder.

“John, you already were.” The other said, only to have silence reign after that. The blonde regarded the silver eyes locked with his, but no words could be formed inside his mouth or his brain. The heavy truth hovering over them like a black cloud making the fight melt off him with its weight.

Sherlock looked back as the moment stretched awkwardly until he seemed to remember they had an audience; after a few seconds, the rebel cleared his throat, brining an end to the stare off. “Listen, that girl,” He said, thankfully shifting the subject to something useful, if a bit unexpected. “That fortune teller,” John ignored the fact that the violet haired boy had clearly not been bothered to learn her name and attempted to figure out how that was relevant. “She lied. She saw something in your future, something she knew you wouldn’t like.” The earnest expression was back in place as he explained his point with shortness of breath. “Not to mention those dreams that-”

John cut him off with a wave, not wishing to drag the topic to light. There were few people who knew about it, and now he was certainly not in the mood to discuss it. The frustration rang on his ears as he searched the faces of the rest of his _‘counsel’,_ finding reluctant agreement in all of them. His sight turned once more towards the boy with the purple hair. The king knew he was right —they were _all_ right— it was logical, in the best interest of the kingdom which he had sworn to protect and defend, but still, no amount of sense would make it stop feeling as a betrayal to the rest of his people. “ But all those kids…” He said, finally letting himself all but collapse into his chair. “Are you prepared for that?” His question fell on the other like a terrible curse, he could recognise it in the other’s expression. Sherlock may be selfish and complete trouble in good clothing, but he was far from the heartless monster he wished for everyone else to believe. 

“ It’s not fair.” John muttered, defeated. He knew he had the power to overrule all of them, no matter how much he respected the various roles they played on his life. But it would be very stupid of him to disregard the opinions of people who clearly knew a lot more about this than him.

“Fair? No.” Mike responded, carefully adjusting the cufflink on his pristine white shirt. “Necessary: I’m afraid so.” His words hammering like nails on a coffin. 

John turned to look at Lady Hudson, her kind face was supporting and comforting, just as it had been since he was little. “We would never forgive ourselves if something happened.” His godmother said reassuringly, while Mycroft’s phone rang and echoed across the room. 

“John,” Sherlock took the moment to sit on the chair’s arm rest. Sighing as if that would stop him from tugging at his violet curls in frustration. “The last thing I want to do is take this away from you.” He admitted, his slender hand landing over his.

Before John could answer the advisor had returned, and by the furrowed brow it hadn’t been good news. “There has been a break in at the museum,” He said, his solemn voice ringing through the silence of those presents. “The queen’s crown has been stolen.” John felt Sherlock stiffen next to him as his own dread descended over his body. 

Fuck.

* * *

“Do they have any idea who it was?” Irene asked from her place on the elegant chair, her head tilted at Sherlock as he paced the length of her small sitting room. The rebel could read on her how tired she really was, even if her crossed legs and perfect posture managed to convey otherwise. “What they want it for?” She said, the lace sleeping gown she had on clearly not abating the chill of the late night, as she slightly shivered. The violet haired boy had shown up at her doorstep at ridiculous o’clock, just after being officially ordered to leave John to rest and not bother him after the day they had had. His brother had raised an eyebrow at him pointedly which left little to be discerned about what he meant by that.

But he needed to vent, the frustration was boiling inside his veins as poison, and with the king unavailable, Irene would have to do. It was better than the skull at least. “Nothing.” He said, almost snarling in irritation. When he had gone to take a look at the crime scene in the museum it had been infested with the royal police, and none of them let him in no matter how many times he insisted he knew what he was doing. Now he had no data, no way of getting it, and no patience left.

The girl didn’t lose track of his movements across the room. The violet haired boy could feel her watching him as a hawk, slightly concerned stare following him as if he were about to collapse spontaneously. “Who else knows?” She asked, a frown grazing her angular face. 

“No one.” The other answered. “And it stays that way,” He made a point to stop and look at her in warning. She _was_ the queen of secrets, but they couldn’t afford to be careless at the moment, the last thing he needed was panicking idiots hindering his investigation. “Mycroft’s working overtime, —no surprise there— to employ new security measures,” He continued. The ceaseless scratching of his arms almost inevitable given the circumstances, but now even that was beginning to agitate him further. What he wouldn’t give for a seven percent potion at the moment. “Says everyone’s already scared enough as it is.”

“And the Villain Kid Program?” Her olive coloured eyes shone as she inquired. Sherlock hadn’t anticipated this particular question to be forthcoming, trust Irene to focus exactly on what he didn’t want to discuss. The tea she had prepared remained untouched by both of them on her coffee table.

He turned his back, hoping to buy time with the action, mindlessly inspecting the decorations on her mantle piece and actively ignoring the pain he still felt in his abdomen from earlier. “They’re in talks about closing it forever.” The rebel said, his hands now deep inside his leather pockets. “Not just the program, the barrier.” The distinction was not lost on either of them, and it felt as if the guillotine was over them now, ready to strike. 

“But you said _‘no’_.” Irene was quick to say, making Sherlock turn his head at it, the conviction in her voice let him know she was in no way asking, but stating. Confident that’s what had happened. As sure as if she were talking about the blueness of the sky. “You obviously said _‘no’_.” She explained further, mistaking his hesitation to answer for confusion. Unfortunately, he was very well _not confused_ by what was happening. “There’s no way you’ll let them do something as stupid as that.” She said, and the violet haired tried very hard not to let anything show on his face. He crossed his arms over the disheveled shirt, but swiftly uncrossed them again to let them hang at his sides, not wishing to appear secretive. He was usually better at lying and concealing information, but his intention was not as strong at the moment. However, he could hardly admit to the truth now, not with that hope on her voice. “Whoever it is doesn’t matter, you can just catch them,” She continued. “This is way more important than politics.” 

“Yes, well-” The other mumbled, uncharacteristically unsure on how to proceed. “Mycroft says security and peace of mind for the kingdom are paramount right now.” His thin shoulders came up in a shrug as he fiddled with things over the table, as if he had no influence over the matter. Shuffling his feet as he decided whether sitting down would be a good move.

Irene was relentless though. “Is that what they think?” Her perfect red lips curled in something akin to a snarl as she seethed. Visibly outraged at the nerve they all had. “They seriously are just deciding no one will ever cross to The Isle again?” She stood up from her seat, her voice rising with her as her dressing gown floated with the movement. The silver gazed almost took a step back from it. “What about those kids?” She gestured to where the living room narrowed into a corridor, where they both knew Archie was now sleeping soundly on her guest bedroom. “We _promised_ them they could go back to visit.” 

“I know.” Sherlock answered, because he _did_ know. He may have not been completely involved in the details but he knew what this meant, how many lives he was shattering with this, including Irene’s. Depriving everyone of the same opportunity that brought him here to have a say in it in the first place. That without it, cookies, and spells, and magic would have never even happened for him.

“And what about John?” The name struck him on the chest, and forced him to take a moment before nonchalantly turning, avoiding her olive gaze. “He’s a handsome boy, he’ll listen to you.” She said nodding to herself, not aware that John listening to him was exactly what had brought this into being, what had caused all of it. “Let you be part of the planning.” The confidence was back on her words as she calmed herself down. Relieved that she had found a solution, an ally in her purpose. “You definitely made a right choice choosing _him_ to shag.” She joked now, wicked smirk stretching over her face as she clearly imagined who knows what sort of situations. The violet haired boy attempted to smile along, but he suspected a funny grimace is what he achieved instead. “I know you’ll stand up for the people of The Isle.” Irene decided as she took one step and embraced him in gratefulness. 

Sherlock froze and frowned over her shoulder, biting his lip until she released him. The indigo haired girl was beaming with pride as the rebel sighed, steering the subject away from her very pleased expression. “Stop smiling.” He said, and was glad to see she took the bait immediately. 

Both her hands rose as she made a show to coo at him, as if he were a little child who had managed to accomplish his first steps. “I’m so proud of you.” Her words were meant as jest, but there was a hint of truth there. Of wonder at what she believed he had, and will do. 

“You’re turning into a mother.” The rebel complained, waving her off as he retreated. Ready to take his leave now that she appeared settled. Coming here had been a mistake and he wondered whether settling for the skull wouldn’t have been a better option after all. Perhaps Lestrade, even injured and possibly complaining as he was.

She sat back down and crossed her legs once more. “As long as I don’t turn into _my_ mother, that’s fine.” She said with an eyebrow rising, finally reaching for the tea in front of her that had long since gone dead cold.

* * *

Irene’s _‘castle’_ was really not nearly as big as she liked to brag about, but it was located in one of the best parts of the kingdom, not to mention with the warmest weather, and it had a big yard which she would let him use for practice whenever he wanted, so Lestrade was not complaining. It really took almost no time for him to all but move in and take advantage of it quite often. 

This morning he was perched on a kitchen stool; the classic, elegant style of the decoration prominent even on the colour of the walls. “Are you _sure_ Molly is going to like this?” He asked, gesturing to the big periwinkle blue box sitting on the counter, the white ribbon on its top as opulent as his surroundings. The other just smirked with red lips as she adjusted her long sleeves.

“Calm down, she’s going to love it.” Irene replied, slowly taking a seat opposite him across the kitchen island. “I know what everyone likes, remember?” Greg stared at her dubiously, she was right to say she was clearly the best anyone could find at this, but gift finding wasn’t exactly her speciality when it came to someone’s _preferences_. 

Still, he supposed he would have to trust in her judgement now, unless he fancied showing up to her name day celebration with cooking appliances and himself as presents. “I guess.” He answered with a shrug, reaching to grab a chocolate piece out of the centre bowl.

“What are you going to do without me?” The girl sighed as she smiled. It was a topic that she liked to discuss frequently, he suspected her subtle hints were attempts to make him change his mind.

Greg just smiled and crossed his arms over his vest-clad chest. “Pick normal presents?” He joked, as he threw the sweet to the air and caught it with his open mouth, he grinned triumphantly and munched on it while he reached for another two to save for later. 

“Are you really set on joining the Yard Forest Academy next cycle, then?” The tone of her voice was casual, but Greg had known her too long to be fooled by it, “Cause I heard it’s really far away and all they have is trees.” She said, a disgusted expression crossed her face as she imagined life in almost austere setting. The grimace reminded the boy of their other purple friend who seemed displeased with everything in the world that was not causing trouble. 

“But they’ve got the best tourney team on the kingdoms,” He countered. It was true, the best opportunity he had to both enter the Royal Armed Forces and to beat other teams at multiple sports. He jumped off the stool and stretched his strong arms over his head. Ignoring the dull ache his shoulder gave him. Lady Hudson had done a great job fixing it with magic, but it was still somewhat sore from the attack the day before.

“And Molly’s going, I know” Irene waved dismissively. Her hand coming up to arrange a strand of her dark blue hair into a stylish crown-like braid, leaving the rest of it hanging free down her shoulders. “At least it will finally be just me and grumpy.” She commented. 

Lestrade’s mouth curled as he laughed. “Nah, you talk tough,” He said, shaking his head sceptically. “But you’re gonna miss us.” His voice firm and confident, not a single trace of doubt or uncertainty to be found in it. “Mostly me.” He knew his smirk was reaching his eyes. 

The other scoffed, “ _Mostly me._ ” She mimicked, rolling her eyes and sitting up straight in the stool. Her delicate arms crossing as her perfect eyebrows rose. 

Greg walked around the counter and stood next to her. “Yes, mostly me.” He stated. Correct even if she pretended or insisted it to be otherwise. “Who else are you gonna miss?” His fingerless-gloved hands reached for another chocolate and proceeded to pop it in his mouth as he beamed at her frown.

She regarded him for a few moments, her face transforming against her will at his casual grin and amused eyes. Her red lips curled into a half smirk as she snickered. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” She admitted.

“There we go.” He patted her in the shoulder good-naturedly, openly laughing at her expression now. 

The girl just shook her head in half annoyance but the mirth didn’t leave her face. She stepped out of the stool and gathered her own gift from the table. A big red and blue monstrosity of dubious shape which Lestrade was at once hesitant and curious to figure out its contents. “You’ve got everything?” She asked, walking towards the other.

“What I _do_ know is Molly is going to love the cake.” Greg nodded, just remembering the sugary perfection. Light blue and white with confectionary flowers that he had spent a whole afternoon directing Sherlock to magic up. The violet haired boy had ended up throwing a wooden spoon at him at one point, just before banishing him from the baking area. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked _him_ , of all people, for help considering his past with baked goods; but even if all of them ended up spelled at the end of the party, well, at least the decoration would be beyond perfect. “I’m sure of that much.” He started as he opened the lid of the box, but the words died in his throat when he encountered a huge piece of it missing. “Wait,” He said, now fuming with frustration. “Who the hell got into the cake?” The loud question was only answered by audible giggles coming from Archie’s room. Greg huffed, and sat back down, he scratched his silver and black hair in dread. This was definitely a problem. 

Irene, watching him with no sympathy, chuckled too as she looked at a message on her phone. “Text from Sherlock.” She said. “The curtain rises. Royal Museum.” The girl read, ominous voice imitating that of the aristocrat drawl. Both of them rolled their eyes in amusement at the dramatic wording.

“Fucking drama queen.” Greg commented from his post, “Remind him not to be late to the party.”He said, but his good mood vanished as her expression transformed. 

“Come immediately.” Irene continued, her olive green eyes growing concerned as they darted to him from the phone in her hand. “Vatic-” She stopped, and turned to the boy in panic as the other prompted her to finish. “That’s all it says.” She stated.

“We need to go.” Greg replied, already hopping off the stool and rushing towards the exit. 

* * *

He was not used to doing this by day. Without the cloak of night aiding in his concealment, but the idiots of the royal police had just decided to give up on their hopeless efforts of understanding anything at all and vacated the scene. He was not about to waste any more time waiting for celestial bodies to rotate and hide him, daylight or not daylight, he would enter that museum.

The sun had already been up for several minutes, but the morning breeze was still fresh on his face as Sherlock sneaked past the guards at the entrance. Just one simple little spell and they hadn’t even noticed him passing them by. Once all this show was over he would have to get Mycroft to increase the security in this place, he was hardly the first to enter it completely unnoticed with foul intentions, he wasn’t even the first to do so in the past twenty four hours. 

The violet haired boy strolled through the different halls, skipping the villain wing entirely, and heading straight towards the royal family exhibition; searching for clues on every other artefact he encountered, for a way in which this could all make sense. There had to be a reason someone would go to the trouble of stealing something which was basically useless, considering all the much better options surrounding it. 

The main hall was illuminated by high chandeliers that gave a warm, opulent glow to the chamber, in complete opposite from the one with a statue of his mother as its main attraction. One of them decorated to entice, to awe and gush about, —since being good and dull as a brick was suddenly all the rage at the moment— the other intended only to frighten, to cower away from. Sherlock ignored the very true fact of that turning out to be him had he not met the blonde, and things at the coronation gone differently. 

He stopped just before the glass encasing, now shattered into a million pieces scattered on the floor, and where just a bright blue velvet cushion remained. Bereft of any purpose now that its precious object had been done away with. The type of criminal required to pull this off surely would know better than to just steal something they couldn’t even sell. Any possible buyers locked inside a dome with no means to auction and certainly no money to afford it. He half suspected her sister just setting all of this up to lure him there. In which case, he was probably in for a painful consequence of just walking into the metaphorical fishnet. 

Sherlock crouched down and bunched up the sleeves on his coat, looking for words to jump out at him and turn this into any semblance of sense; but the motivation kept eluding him. Nothing other on the showcase was touched, just this one thing that would have otherwise remained there for the foreseeable future —or at least until John surprised everyone and suddenly decided to choose a queen instead. 

The rebel frowned and fought the urge to snarl in frustration at the lack of evidence. He knew how they had come inside, —child’s play if you were anywhere near competent— and the weapon which they had used to smash the glass: a fireplace poker, judging by the direction and coverage of the wreckage; but no clue brought him any closer to the identity of the thief. If this wasn’t his sister looking for revenge then what the hell was going on?

He took a step back, his heavy boots echoing in the distant silence of the vast room, hoping to take the scene in full, to grasp at the moment in which it had happened, not ready to give the search up as futile. He owed it to John to at least give him an answer on why his most important dream was being ruthlessly destroyed. Sherlock had felt a sword slice though his guts at the expression the blonde had worn when he had left him the night prior, the light utterly gone from the commonly hopeful blue eyes. The only thing in all the kingdoms able to make the violet haired boy want to fall on his knees in defeat. 

As he paced the place, his brain already listing whatever he saw and storing it by order of destruction, he attempted to build a theory in his mind palace. Then, as if plucked out of the very suffocating air around him, he noticed something. A fact that he had overlook all this time, and probably the best probability he had of finding out the truth. 

This whole place didn’t lack in powerful and incredibly dangerous artefacts, and while it would practically be impossible to hide a break in for an amateur —even the bumbling morons of the force would get somewhere with that— they could conceal the true target by diverting everyone’s attention elsewhere. A distraction most likely executed as a big mess. A big mess consisting of a missing dear object and a floor covered in tiny little crystal parts. 

The violet boy turned around then, his hands joining in front of his face as he inspected everything they didn’t want him to even glance. Delight painting his features as his silver eyes squinted to analyse. When nothing stood out, he migrated to other halls, exhibitions not as favourited but equally brimming with possibilities. After almost strutting by the chambers for a few moments he came to a stop. 

He had not been there in a long time, not since they had first included this particular piece in the showcase, and that was only to ensure it was there, it was secure, and its —previous— owner was not claiming it back any time soon, although now it seemed such certainty had been as breakable as that glass. Sherlock’s eyebrows met in a scowl as he regarded the magical pull surrounding it, or more specifically, the lack thereof. Violet’s sceptre had always been alluring, magnetic as a black hole just impatient to devour you whole; but at present nothing was happening, no natural gravity dragging you forward to just let your skin make contact. No _desire_. In conclusion: not the real sceptre. 

The replica was exact, however, a lot of skill put into it. But now that he saw it up close, it was only slightly shorter. His face warmed in satisfaction as the narrative took on a more plausible order in his mind. Never mind the terrible threat which hunted them, with _this_ he could work. Almost certain now this had Eurus’ name written all over it, he fired up a text to Irene, knowing she’d be with Lestrade; smirking as he hit _‘send’_ and all but rejoiced in wonder that the actual police hadn’t picked up on something that was so evident. 

“They didn’t even notice the missing inches.” A voice behind him said, freezing him instantly as he recognised it, but never in this context. He turned around, and where he had previously expected to find his sister, he saw Mary instead, looking somehow unfamiliar and regarding him casually as she leaned almost all her weight in the massive sceptre in her hold. The queen’s crown perched on her blonde head.

Sherlock fell the floor fall from beneath his feet, a hole growing in his stomach as his mind adjusted to the information, filtering all the superficial talk and leaving behind something he should have seen. “Mary?” He asked dumbly. “You-” He was unable to finish, his brain still trying to play catch up with his silver eyes. “Why would you-”

“I wanted them, so I took them.” She answered, her voice hollow as she recited. Face devoid of all emotion as she tilted her head in contemplation. “You of all people should understand that.” The sentence was propelled forward like a bullet, his breath shortening as he let out a nervous laugh in disbelief. He had been so very wrong.

She swung his mother’s staff in his direction, but stopped before any damage could be caused. The dress she wore was unlike anything he had ever seen in her, all jagged edges and bold colours, and her golden-blonde hair was streaked with soft pink and blue that made suspicion settle and grow on his chest. 

“Just put the sceptre down.” The violet haired boy suggested, a placating hand coming up in front of him, but placing the other behind his back. His fingers sure to type the message precisely even while he couldn’t see. 

“Why?” The girl asked, turning her gaze towards the object in question with something akin to curiosity. “I thought you liked spells.” She said, her blue eyesturning to find his, making him starkly remember how he had acquired everything he currently had. “Is John here?” Mary asked, as if the subject had brought him to her mind once more. 

The rebel shook his head in answer, but continued, “It’s dangerous.” He said, not entirely sure himself why _he_ needed to explain that to her, —he was quite certain everyone in the kingdom would be able to gather as much; his mother did curse a new-born baby with it, after all— but his brain was not performing as it should be. The key to reason lost somewhere between bottomless shock and dread.

“Look who’s playing safe now.” Mary stepped forward, but despite the words there was no real mock or derision crossing her expression. No smile or anger, either. Her hold on the sceptre turning knuckle-white while her voice remained flatly cold. Logical, even. “You’ve no idea what I can handle.” She said, and the rebel obviously didn’t, the situation’s reality was way worse than what he’d been preparing for. Mary spun away then, and paced to the back of the chamber casually. 

“No, Mary.” He responded, his silver eyes narrowing as he truthfully spoke from the worst of his confusion; that something which gnawed at his head. “You shouldn’t be able to touch it.” Hell, she shouldn’t even be _alive_ right now. There was no possible way that a mortal would be, yet there she was. “You- you have no magic.” His words shook, from what he could hear above the loud beating of his heart. 

“Sherlock Holmes is sure about that?” She turned back to face him, something menacing appearing for the first time on her demeanour, cutting through the facade as a knife. It was so out of character from what he knew of her that it paralysed him for a few moments, not even her little secret guaranteed this. “How badly do you want to find out?” The words were out her thin, pale pink lips before he had a chance to even contemplate what the prior statement could mean for their lives and his own understanding of black spells. Use of dark magic, such as the sceptre’s, doesn’t reward good intentions, if anything, it makes things way worse for the pure of heart. 

“Whoever is making you do this, we can-” He started, but the words vanished like ghosts on the light when she presented her weapon forward, a warning to not even finish such thought. Sherlock’s pale hands clenched as he took a step back. But somehow, even then, he couldn’t believe she would ever dare harm him. “You’re not going to curse me.” He said, finding confidence in her face; in the fact that John had once been in love with this girl. 

“I won’t?” She appeared surprised, as if she didn’t believe he would ever presume to tell her anything about herself which she didn’t already know. 

“No, Mary.” The other approached, talking slowly as the silence echoed his heavy footsteps. Eyes watching her in earnest and waiting for confirmation in the blue ones before him. “You won’t.” His words were final. Showing no hint of fear or hesitation whatsoever. He was Sherlock, and she was Mary Morstan and she was _not_ going to hurt him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Mary replied, mouth curling into a grimace. “I truly am.” She said, just before a bright light came bursting out of the sceptre and blinding, agonising, pain tore through the boy’s abdomen.


	4. Chapter 3: To Dream Of Another’s Nightmare

[ ](https://ibb.co/MnssJ2X)

> _ Nightmares.   
> Unpleasant dreams that cause a strong emotional response from the mind when experienced.   
> Most typically fear, but also paired with despair. They can be useful to criminals   
> with the goal of causing maximum distress to their victims. _

Mary watched as Sherlock collapsed on the floor. His long limbs folded in a kneeling position and head bent down as he gasped in suffering. Both his hands clutched his abdomen in an attempt to smother the pain, but she knew it would really do no good. The curse would spread like venom through his bloodstream soon, and no amount of pressure on the entrance wound would be able to sooth or stop the flow. It really shouldn’t have come to this, —not that it wasn’t every last bit deserved— but he shouldn’t have come snooping on things that weren’t his business. He shouldn’t have left The Isle at all. 

She had come to know Sherlock in the past few moon cycles, since his presence had threw all her life off course, and she knew he wouldn’t stop until the answers were all his to categorise, he was physically unable to leave any loose threat un-tugged, any truth undiscovered. Hiding from the royal police had been laughably easy for her, but _his_ eyes were different, nearly undeniable. She wasn’t stupid —far from it, to be honest— that’s exactly why she knew she also wasn’t smarter than Sherlock Holmes; but he, for all his high power, had a fatal flaw, and one about which he appeared to be ignorant. It was only a matter of time before he was going to thrust himself at the centre of something which didn’t concern him. Sooner or later this was always going to end in tragedy. 

Her family had had several ideas on what her life would be, plans laid out since she and John had been mere toddlers, and for a while that had been enough. Now, however, circumstances had changed. Holding her tongue and never straying too much from the line drawn in the sand wasn’t exactly going to cut it any more, not when there were villains wreaking havoc in the kingdom to their will. All those people misbehaving while others stayed behind just because they refused to take matters into their own hands. Ironically, the ones who had taught her how to behave had also given her the tools to discard said roles when needed. Perhaps the whole of it was slightly dramatic, but that didn't automatically mean it was not justified or necessary. 

Her own original intention had been different, but the moment she had set foot into that museum and felt the sceptre’s call for her, beckoning her to just _reach out and grab_ , a world of possibilities had opened up in front of her blue eyes. A chance to fix what all those royal families, —including her own— who thought they actually knew anything of the world and how it worked, had managed to botched up with their stupid decisions. She was loath to say John had been the worst offender of that.

Now all of it was in her veins, in her brain; the unfathomable ability being dumped on her as her fingers had closed around the sceptre’s form, unpredictably growing stronger by the moment. Every action of hers had been a reaction to the things such a kingdom had hurled at her, The Isle of the Lost oozing its tendril-like arms into their lives had only made everything worse, contributing insult over the already pathetic injury. Snatching meaning and importance from the lives they lead. And maybe all the others would be able to tolerate it, but she had never been one for settling. This is what she deserved, what _they_ deserved in return, and she couldn’t trust the key to it all to someone who was a liar and a cheater at best just because he had given his dubious word; she couldn’t trust him no to tell John.

She watched as the other gasped out shuddering breaths. His eyes rolling back as he was desperately clutching for something to hold onto. She would be lying if she said the image didn’t conjure up emotions inside of her, but all of them were trumped on by her steel desire to just get everything back as it should be. And here she had the biggest probability of her plans and intentions failing and crumbling into sweepable dust in front of her, and there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do to stop that from happening. 

To her, it seemed as if she had been standing there looking at him her whole life. Everything she had done before tunnelling in on this moment a string of unreachable memories or visions. She was desperate, almost delirious with the need to eradicate such useless thoughts. She curled her fingers tighter on the staff, her other hand coming up to bring a strand of her hair back behind her ear as she sighed. She sent a flash of blinding green magic towards the pitiful figure, the lights on the chandeliers above their heads bursting with the effort to balance out the gravity on the room as it rendered him unconscious and unaware of his own suffering, sprawled unnaturally on the floor. Mary coldly adjusted the golden crown on her head and turned her high heeled shoes towards the exit, perfectly making her way to the outside word. Glad to hear only silence behind her.

* * *

The pain wasn’t even the worst part. 

It was excruciating and suffocating; pain like he had never known, all sharp, and deep, and scorching. Like the very flesh was melting off his bones, leaving him bare in the most fundamental of ways, never to be put back together again. But the _horror_ , the horror was worse. 

It wasn’t that he wasn’t terrified out of his pants, because he was, but it was the thought of changing that scared him the most. The curse ran through his veins, like a virus corrupting every cell in his body. Changing him from the inside out as it obliterated everything that could be left of him after that, and there was no telling what the outcome would be. He attempted to chase his thoughts, to find a solution or contingency spell that could help him, but they all scattered away as another wave of _something_ rolled over him. Intellect corrupted and impossible to execute through the blockage. 

Magic had never been like that for him, it was always strong, and warm, and powerful. Not even when he had believed he would be trapped inside his Mind Palace forever, resigned to wander endlessly bound to a magic he had created. No, this threatened to delete him, everything he was swept away and replaced. Not dead, but definitely worse. 

He wondered how could he had been so stupid. The illusion of knowledge a knife undercover piercing him, fooling him every time. The both of them were supposed to have come to an understanding, a mutual cease of arms for respect of both of their feelings towards the king, but he could now see how naive such notion had been, which he normally never was. His reflexes were quick to come into gear despite the agony, but he could not even move his limbs, let alone try to retaliate.What was left of his magic after being drained the day before would not be match to the sceptre’s power, —never mind the unexplained mystery of how she had managed to acquire it without perishing herself—. He was at Mary’s mercy, his body ablaze while she watched him burning down in flames. 

What he was able to see of her face through the pain was cold, a stern and logical gaze that told him nothing. Nothing but how nearsighted he had been, thinking he and John could stay on top of everything. Believing what they did had no consequences at all. He ran across the invisible halls of his Mind Palace, in search for something that would aid him, calm him down and shield him from reality and what his body experienced; but the pain was filtering through his mental processes, not even his own brain could protect him from it as he was cautious to go too deep; knowing what lurked beneath there.

Something fleeted across her face then. There and gone a second later as he struggled not to cry out in agony. She raised the sceptre towards him, appearing to him as in slow motion as he waited for something worse than a curse to befall him. Mary sighed and stroke, then everything faded to a silent black.

* * *

Nothing in the kingdom could have ever prepared Lestrade for the sight that greeted them when they managed to enter the museum’s Villain Hall. The lights on the chandeliers over their heads were off for some reason, making it difficult to navigate through the exhibition and lending a quite eerie atmosphere to the hall, but the figure lying crumbled on the floor at the centre of it was unmistakable even in darkness. Their friend was lying in front of his mother’s sceptre, so still that for a moment they thought him to be dead. The both of them ran towards him, letting out a collective sigh of relief when they noticed he was still breathing, if a bit on the shallow side, but definitely alive. 

Irene crouched down beside him, urgently reaching her delicate hand to remove the purple hair from the other’s face, trying to take a glance at his face; just then realising how bizarre his skin shimmered in the darkness. She rolled him over to his back, while Lestrade stayed behind, a hand scratching his own arm and looking in worry at her attempts to bring him back into consciousness. Neither said a word, but they could see how bad the damage was just by the fact that Sherlock didn’t seem to be responding. 

“Sherlock!” She said. “Don’t be an idiot, wake up.” The girl’s frustration was apparent, it rose the longer he went without waking up. She wrapped her fingers around his shoulders and shook him, near violently. When that didn’t work, Greg placed a hand on her arm and gestured for her to give him a turn. She stepped aside to give him room, her olive gaze locked in his and radiating worry as she nervously crossed her arms over her chest. 

Lestrade knelt next to the boy and regarded him. He cracked his knuckles, and with the force he could muster, he slapped him. Irene was ready to berate him, but stopped the moment Sherlock opened his grey eyes. The boy took an anguished gasp at the onslaught of input, choking on the air he couldn’t manage to take into his lungs as if he were thousands of miles under the sea with drowning as his only possible relief. His panicked gaze landed on the other’s as he crushed Greg’s arm in a white-knuckled grip.

They attempted to tug him into a sitting position to allow for him to breath more easily, but the violet haired boy couldn’t hold his own weight, slumping forward as a bag of potatoes and banging his head on the older boy’s shoulder quite forcefully. His expression closed off in pain. “Blimey, Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed, almost startling back from surprise when he watched how his skin shimmered and changed, almost as if it couldn’t decide what colour it had to be. “You might want to think of a spell for that.” He said. The boy didn’t answer, clearly in no state to do either as he writhed on the floor. “What _the fuck_ happened to you?” Greg asked.

“M- Mary.” Was all Sherlock could force himself to respond through his gritted teeth, doubling in half as the other two stayed silent. His shaking fingers unable to stay still. ‘ _Terrified’_ one would call it if one did not know Sherlock, The Dragon Holmes. 

Lestrade turned to look at the girl with the indigo hair, the both of them sharing a worried expression as they struggled to comment. Irene sighed, “We need to call John.” She stated, already retrieving her mobile to phone for something close to emergency magical services. “Lady Hudson may-” She started, but a disagreeing sound stopped her on her tracks. The mouth from where it had come was pressed tightly, its owner shaking his head with an inhaled wheezing. “No?” Irene paused, incredulous. One hand coming to her own waist as they waited for an explanation.

“You need to go to hosp-” Lestrade’s words were confused as he frowned. Sherlock, even through all that, still found a way to manage a condescending stare at the other. The dark haired had half a mind to slap the boy’s impossible attitude for good measure, but he was genuinely concerned about him. His arms extended to lean the other back and inspect his face. Trying to absorb what he meant between bouts of heaving. 

“Isle.” Sherlock gasped, the only explanation he appeared to be able to give. Irene rushed forward, crouching in front of him again as her red lips disappeared from the pressure of biting them.Her olive gaze ran thought his form as if willing his body to reveal the complex logic behind his words. Greg thought he was probably delusional.

“What?” The girl asked, grabbing his hand to draw his attention away from the torture he was clearly experiencing. 

“ _I-isle!_ ” The other insisted, a sulky tone on his pained word. Definitely delusional, then. The rebel wriggled out of the hold and dropped to the floor, possibly ready to _crawl_ there if they refused to assist him. 

“Okay, okay.” Greg let him go, showing his hands in surrender, “Can you stand up?” He asked, the glare from the other went actively ignored. “Even cursed you’re still a menace.” He mumbled as he passed a strong arm under his torso to lift him up. After a few moments of fumbling, Lestrade stood up, Sherlock draped over his shoulders like a dead weight as he carried him towards the exit. The boy had incoherently protested to being lifted up at first, but the pain was too great for him to put up much resistance, so he slumped awkwardly, resigned to his fate as Irene watched him carefully while she walked to their right. 

“Let’s go.” She said, and stayed silent the rest of the way.

* * *

Despite what Sherlock would say, the decorations had actually turned out quite lovely, if Molly could say so herself. The various tables where arranged in the clearing between the forest and the Enchanted Lake, different blue and white tablecloths draped over them as big, soft pink ribbons and bows tied up the look. The sweets table held all sort of delicious sugary goods arranged in holders and tiny platforms at the ends, a space awaiting the cake at the centre. Several people were laid over beach towels and picnic fabrics all around the water, they laughed and ate the canapés she had prepared, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. As if it hadn’t been less than twenty four hours when they had been scared out of their pastel clothes.

Molly watched the scene unfold from her place in the stone platform above the water, the architecture around her accented with blue ribbons that climbed up the columns in similar fashion than those of the vines made up from tiny cobalt flowers. A big banner hung from between the pillars with _‘Happy name day, Molly!’_ etched in big bold type at its centre. It was all quite perfect, except for the fact that several of her friends had yet to arrive, not to mention her boyfriend was also a no show so far. 

“Looks like Lestrade forgot your name day.” A voice cut the thoughts right out from her mind, startling her into the present. She turned her wide brown eyes to him in surprise, watching him complacently smile at her. Molly bit her lip and failed to comment, her gaze once again fixed on the path of arrival. 

“Shut up, Anderson.” Said Janine from their right as she inspected the gift bench, an annoyed grimace over her strong features as she regarded the boy, knowing perfectly well what he attempted to do.She placed a hand over her own waist as she glared him into silence.

Molly ignored both of them as long as she could, but found she was helpless from refuting them. “Maybe not.” She was quick to insist, tugging at the long sleeves of her light jumper. “Maybe he just took the wrong trail or something.” They must be on their way, there was no possibility that he would fail to show up, “Or maybe they don’t even celebrate name days on The Isle.” The words kept coming, to the point where she no longer knew who she was trying to convince; Greg had been a perfect boyfriend so far and she couldn’t doubt him. If he was not there there had to be a valid reason. “Like a cultural thing.” She finished lamely. 

“Or _maybe_ he just forgot.” Anderson replied, his smug tone bringing and end to her nervous, very conscious illusion of hope. She fiddled with her ponytail to stop from saying something else, she didn’t exactly appreciate his attempts to mock her for believing in Lestrade, specially when he, himself, was somewhat obsessed with the notion of _attempting_ —there was no way he would ever let him— to become Sherlock’s friend.

“Hey, Philip.” Janine said, pointing towards the rocks at he the edge of the crystalline waters. “Look! they’re having a water gun competition.” Her words appeared cheerful, but the clear exasperation on them shone through to everyone but him.Molly let out a sigh of relief when his eyes alighted in interest and he stumbled to join, yelling _‘Wait for me!’_ while he rushed away form them and up the rocky hill.

The calm lasted for a few seconds before it was broken. “I’m sure they’re on their way.” Janine assured, her half smile honest as the other nodded absentmindedly. In reality, she had a horrible feeling of dread when she questioned the reason for their absence, dismay growing the longer they took. Specially since something that involved the four of them —John now hopelessly clumped with them as Sherlock was often _glued_ to his hip— never forbade something positive. Often quite the catastrophic opposite. 

“What if he isn’t?” She asked, because what if they never really showed up? Would that cancel what she thought was real? All the progress they had made? She turned her head away from Janine, not able to face the answer that was sure to materialise on her honest features at such question and waited impatiently. 

But her silent agitation was swiftly interrupted, a cloud of dusty pink smoke rose from the ground in the clearing with a bang, making all of her guest’s heads whirl around in surprise. When the smoke dissipated, it left behind an unexpected figure.

She walked with confidence and purpose, her hair completely blue and pink. “Mary? What-” Molly asked, but there were no words to finish. Nothing that could make sense of what she was seeing. Even from a distance, that didn’t look like Mary at all.

“Did anyone save me some cake?” The girl asked, a casual, nonchalant expression over her face as she strolled among the tables, as if she weren’t dressed for battle and were not carrying a highly dangerous staff made up from black magic. The leather on her pink dress shiny under the sun and her heavy cape swirled behind her as she moved to inspect the guests who appeared even more confused than how Molly felt, which was a feat.

“What are you doing with the sceptre?” The almost brunet stepped forward to ask, raising her voice as much as she dared to in order to ensure she wouldn’t be ignored this time; but the other didn’t appear to care for her questions, she went on all the same. Molly turned to Janine in search for help, for someone to agree they were witnessing this too and all Sherlock’s experiments with potions hadn’t left herpermanently delusional with their fumes. The expression she found on the other’s face was a bewildered confirmation.

“Don’t be expecting Sherlock,” Mary commented, walking towards the table filled to the brim with sweets and reached delicate fingers to pick up a cupcake. “He’s…” She paused, as if considering her words carefully. “Not feeling himself.” The conclusion made a pool of panic settle on Molly’s stomach. She didn’t like the edge nor the intentional ambiguity she heard at such term. 

“What did you do?” She demanded, all past worries about her party and her boyfriend discarded in the face of a worse threat. The former blonde had shown up acting as a friend, but Molly could recognise a lot of other emotions brewing under that, amicable business-as-usual was not on that list. 

Her knees were shaking with panic, her mind spinning with all the horrible scenarios that could have befallen her friends. “Does that make you sad?” Mary addressed her then, turning her casual face to her, and brushing a pink lock of hair out of her face. “Does it just _ruin_ everything?” She was calm as she said this, _too_ calm compared with the acid dripping from what she was conveying. As easily as if she were talking about the near constant perfect weather. 

Molly stuttered, her brain not forming the correct words to reply. Thankfully, she was stopped by Janine “Okay, time out.” The girl said, taking some steps closer with both her hands up. “First off, great look.” Her voice was friendly and managed to make the pink haired girl stop to listen. “I love the feathers,” Janine continued advancing slowly, until she was almost standing in front of her, the other’s expression became analytical as her eyes narrowed. “But maybe you can put the sceptre down, we will call John and we can-” Molly could recognise the exact moment when Mary had stopped listening, seeing straight through the thinly veil attempt at containing her. 

“And what?” She demanded, stamping the staff on the forest floor, the first outward manifestation of her uncovered purpose. “Bring in more villain kids to fix everything?” Janine gasped silently and took a step back. Molly stayed rooted to the spot in disbelief as she watched. Not knowing how to tie the facts with was she thought she knew of her. That she was a mortal unable to use magic being the first thing. 

The other guests had backed away, most of them frightened into stupefaction as they huddled in pairs or groups away from the altercation, but none of them appeared as if they were able to move their feet around and run. Perhaps as incredulous that this was actually happening as her. 

Anderson, however, decided to choose the exact moment to do what he did best and make everything ten times worse. He stepped forward with a smirk and started talking. “Before you do whatever you’re going to do I was wondering if maybe you wanted a loyal friend by your side?” He asked, Mary’s expression souring the longer he kept talking. “A partner in crime?” He offered, running a hand through his black hair as if that would somehow convince her. “Or maybe just a lackey to do your bidding?” Philip said, apparently ready to discard his current obsession in the face of a shiny new opportunity. How feeble his loyalties were.

The girl regarded him for a few seconds, only to swiftly thrust her arm forward and send a green blinding light in his direction. As soon as the sceptre stopped shining, Anderson fell back unconscious. “Wait!” Janine yelled, but Mary appeared to be unleashed, not to be stopped by anyone’s opinion on the matter.

“You all like to ignore reality so much,” She said, determined frown gracing her face as she spun around. “You’ll love this.” The sceptre came alive again, pink smoke oozing out of it as tendrils from a poisonous vine. The ones present began to run but as soon as the fumes floated up and entered their lungs they fell down asleep, instant dozing with just one touch of the spell. “Sweet dreams.” Mary said, her expression still blank as she watched them fall one by one. Janine slumped down in front of her, too slow to escape the rapidly advancing fumes.

Molly backed away, careful not to let Mary notice her doing so. The pink smoke was lapping at her shoes already as her feet encountered the edge of the platform; And she realised she had nowhere else she could go, she had cornered herself between the curse and the water. And that was when, like lighting to her brain, came an idea. The last opportunity she had of potentially surviving this. With a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around her own body and plunged herself deep into the waters of the Enchanted Lake. 

* * *

John rushed about his bedroom, discarding the stripped blue and golden tie on his chair and ditching the blazer. The light that shone through his big framed windows was dulled by the unusually drawn white curtains over them, now permanently closed as a futile attempt to prevent him from looking at The Isle of the Lost even in passing; he didn’t exactly need the distraction caused by the distress that thinking about it and all its damned inhabitants brought out in him. He also chose to not acknowledge how alike to his father and all the other unaware royals such attitude made him. Like a skin suit that didn’t fit quite right over his sturdy frame.

He took a moment to breathe out a sigh, placing both his hands over the chair’s back and hunching over in order to cleanse his brain from the thought. John wasn’t exactly in the mood for parties and celebrations. In reality, he had plenty to do that required his complete and urgent attention, not to mention the break in at the museum was still unsolved, and his boyfriend’s sister was at large, and his dreams were being ruthlessly crushed before his eyes on top of everything else with which they already had to deal. Socialising now would be a complete and irresponsible waste of time that they did not, in fact, had; but Molly had always been one of his closest friends, since they were toddlers playing knights and princesses, and if the king allowed himself to let her down on her name day, then he had already lost everything he had ever stood for. 

He was aware Molly would understand, would never dare to hold against him a decision he had taken in favour of the kingdom and its safety; still, John found it physically impossible to stop himself from going to her, even if just for a little while. Showing a sliver of gratitude for the countless times she had supported and helped him, specially when it came to Sherlock and the others.

The blonde waited for a few seconds then stood up straight, he nodded to himself and adjusted his white button down as if preparing for slaughter. He would probably be the last one to arrive; that is if his boyfriend even remembered the party at all, immersed in research and plans as John expected he would be. He hadn’t heard anything from him since the night prior, and a silent Sherlock was almost more worrying than his stratospheric sulking alter ego. The king made sure to grab the big yellow gift he had bought for her and swiftly moved towards the exit when his mobile came to life with the very same girl’s ringtone. 

A smile was allowed to stretch over his face as he answered. “Hey, Molly.” He said, guilty voice speaking far more quickly than he was used to. “Sorry, I’m on my way to the party now.” He pressed the phone between his cheek and shoulder, grabbing his keys and then scratching the back of his neck with the hand that wasn’t currently carrying two and a half kilos worth of present. “The meetings ran long and-” 

“No!” Molly was quick to reply, her panicked tone robbing the colour out from the blonde’s complexion. “Stay where you are, John.” She urged, he could hear shaky breath coming from her lips through the mobile’s speaker. “Mary’s got the sceptre and spelled everyone to sleep.” Her explanation didn’t really cleared anything up, instead tangling the knots in his brain even more frustratingly. 

“Wait, what-?” He asked dumbly, not even knowing how to start unraveling the few sentences she had hurriedly spoken. The giant box on his right side fell to the ground in a crash, its existence forgotten as he clutched the phone with both hands, willing it to deliver him solutions.

Molly ignored his half-formed confusion, dutifully continuing as her voice grew worried. “I’m gonna call Gran and tell her to get her wand.” She declared, muffled sounds echoing from her side of the conversation, only to hang up immediately after. Behind him, Mike appeared at the threshold of his door, rushing to figure out what the commotion was about.

“Is Sherlock with you?” The king asked into the phone, his blue eyes widening as he found himself completely ignored, “Molly?” He tried again, his brain taking a moment to realise the connection had been severed. The tone on the other side sounding eerily similar to a flatline to him. He cursed under his breath and turned as he lowered his hand in defeat. “Mary has the sceptre and cursed all of Molly’s guests.” He explained to Mike, watching slightly surprised ginger eyebrows climb the other’s forehead. 

“My sources hadn’t reported back a-” He started, his grip on the umbrella tightening.But John cut him off, shaking his head and pacing back as he distressed himself further. His hands shook as he punched the numbers on his mobile screen. Probably more forcefully than necessary, but gracefulness was not exactly possible for him at the moment.

“I don’t know just-” He said, putting the phone to his ear, a chant of _‘pick up, pick up, pick up.’_ falling from his lips as the other end continued unresponsive. “Shit!” He exclaimed, making his friend walk closer carefully, as if soothing a wild animal. His perfectly ironed suit wrinkling as he made big gestures to get him to stop.

“John,” The ginger said, but the royal shook him off, continuing his futile attempts and trying anything he could think of to communicate. “Come on!” He yelled, as yet another line appeared to be dead to the world, not a single sign that any of them would be able to take his call. “Sod this,” He threw the mobile to the floor, hearing the screen crack irreparably as he made for the door.“I’m going there.” He declared.

“John!” Mike grabbed him by the shoulders and slowly pushed him backwards and away from the door. The blonde knew the situation was dire whenever his best friend turned physical in his intentions. John tried to shake him off but the other just strengthened the hold and forced him to look into his eyes. “Just calm down,” He said at the face of John’s overwhelming distress. “We must-”

“Something happened, I know it!” The king exclaimed, his cheeks becoming warm as his jaw locked. “They’re not picking up and I’m sure Sherlock went to investigate even when you explicitly told him not, and Mary must have gone for him first beforegoing to Molly’s par-” The words came out, John unable to halter the flow as they seemed attached to the breath he couldn’t quite catch. It was all too much, it had been piling up for hours and hours and now everything they had attempted to accomplish slipped through his very own fingers in a matter of seconds. If something had happened to his friends he would never be able to forgive himself.

“That’s not you fault.” Mycroft stated, as if he had all but plucked the meaning right out of his skull. His expression afforded no question, though, just as sure of the facts as he had been since the blonde had been five cycles old and had found him wandering in a market, explaining to a vendor how flawed his sales plan was. 

John disagreed, “Can’t you see?” He said, hands gesturing to the entirety of his royalblue and yellow bedroom as if it were somehow proof of how very incorrect such statement was. “Of course it is.” He said. “I don’t know what she’s doing, but don’t you think that she has just a tiny little bit of a valid reason to have it out for us?” He was not delusional, he knew exactly what he had done, or _allowed_ someone else to do to anger a kingdom worth of royals. He couldn’t believe she was capable of doing something so extreme, but he didn’t exactly have to wonder where the inspiration had come from.

“No, she doesn’t, John.” The other said, his back straight as he too was beginning to tire of the pointless argument. A hidden layer of worry for his brother and the fate of the kingdom painting his clinical words. “You’re a good king.” He concluded.

“No,” The blue eyed replied, no arguments to be tolerated by the tone he was employing. “I’m useless.” He sighed as he collapsed on his chair, stopping himself from stomping his feet in anger as his head searched for a plan, a course of action that could change his passive status. 

Mike made a noise as he grimaced, John could see in him the same exasperation he often wore when Sherlock was being particularly difficult in order to wind him up. “You’re a man of action,” He said, hand releasing and closing in again on the handle of his favourite umbrella. “In fact, you’re addicted to it,” The truth wasn’t exactly a surprise, but it was also something John was unsure on whether he wanted to dwell at the moment. He was ready to storm out of the castle and turn every single leaf to find Sherlock and his friends; put an end to whatever disease was growing in his kingdom and just be done with it all. Logic and sense seemed like a distant, unwanted memory right now. “And you’ve never stood by and done nothing when you see an injustice being done.” The other finished, his face neutral as if he were sure he had accomplished something with his input. John was inclined to agree for once. The Holmes may be powerful, accurate-piercing scalpels capable of precisely cutting through the thickest of barriers —it had happened to him twice now— but he wasn’t waiting around for someone to drop a bomb over their heads this time. No matter the cost.

“I’m not planning to.” He said as Mike’s eyes grew wide.

* * *

Irene was not sure how much of a good idea this was. She loved the island, that much was glaringly obvious to anyone with half a brain, but there was a reason why they were thinking of closing it down for good, —not that she agreed or would ever really allow that to happen— and there was absolutely no guarantee they wouldn’t be attacked the moment their boots touched the ground on the other side of the barrier; and considering they were dragging a kid along and their most skilled strategist was currently doing a believable impersonation of a dead body, let’s just say the girl didn’t like their chances.

“I don’t want to go back.” Archie complained, his grip on Irene’s waist as they both climbed on the motorbike’s seat was relentless. She was half worried they were never going to be able to pry him away once in The Isle. “I just got here.” He said, the edge of his voice breaking as his dreams of Auradon sunshine were crushed.

The indigo haired girl sighed, the futileness of the situation sinking deep into her bones as she tore her gaze away from the island across the vast ocean. “Do we really need to bring him?” She asked Sherlock, who was still awkwardly placed over Greg’s shoulder, attempting not to writhe in pain and fall off. 

A moody grunt was all the answer she got in return. “Fine.” She said, her lips pursed into exasperation as she grabbed the handles with both hands. There was not even use in arguing with this.

Lestrade carried the silver-gazed boy and deposited him in the back of the other bike they had _‘borrowed’_ from the royal garage. Proceeding to sit himself and make sure the lump wouldn’t accidentally —or not so accidentally if he continued with that attitude— fly off from the rear. He secured the control for the barrier in his pocket before they took off —if they lost it now they would be screwed in more ways than the usual— and turned the engine to life. “Okay, let’s go.” He said, turning to face Irene, his brown eyes searching for readiness and determination in the olive gaze. “Let’s get his Majesty to the land of the the lost and damned.” He smirked as Sherlock made a complaining noise just before they were racing over the water. 

The island in the distance grew larger as they approximated to where they weren’t exactly allowed to go. Irene couldn’t help but hope Sherlock had a plan for this, and more importantly that said plan wouldn’t end with them incarcerated when they returned.

* * *

Sherlock never thought he would ever relish feeling the islander near apocalyptic rain falling in heaps over his skin. However, knowing the alternative as the pain and _wrongness_ of Mary’s curse slugging through his arteries, the pouring water felt akin to heaven on earth. 

As soon as the bikes were parked in one of the dock’s clearing, the violet haired boy gracefully jumped off the backseat and fixed the coat on his shoulders. Brushing the sweat-stuck hair from his forehead and taking the deep breath of a free man. He turned his kaleidoscope eyes towards Lestrade and glared. “If you ever carry me like that again, I’m going to set all your gloves on fire.” He said, his arms crossed as he stood brooding in front of him.

Greg frowned in confusion, unconsciously getting one of his legs over to step off the motor bike as he stared at the figure the rebel knew he made. “You’re you again!” He exclaimed, once realisation landed on his expression. Recognising the curse had vanished. 

“Evil magic doesn’t work here, remember?” Sherlock responded, as Irene helped Archie hesitatingly walk in their direction. “That’s the whole point.” The words carried an edge, and were accompanied with a condescending look as his finger gestured the dome over them; but soon his face turned into an insolent smile as he turned his lean body around and started walking towards their destination. It wasn’t like they had time to waste on any more standing around, it was already bad enough he had been made to wait —gasping in pain, no less— while the others struggled to get the means of transportation ready. 

“Glad to see you’re feeling better.” Irene mumbled to his back as she strode to follow him. He could hear the three of them walking behind him, all of them used to the ruthless weather of their homeland. He swerved the crates and rubbish bins and waited for the questions he knew were coming to fall from the other’s mouths. 

Lestrade was the first to cave. “What happened?” He asked, working his legs to catch up with him and read his expression as he answered. The hands constantly curled up in fists now stuffed inside his trouser pockets, betraying his apprehension completely.

Sherlock turned to regard him fully, deciphering the letters which appeared every time he looked at his strong face. “Apparently Mary decided that being a royal was too out of style for her,” He said, playful tone contrasting with his frustrated movements. “So she stole the crown and the sceptre and decided to try and join the super secret villain gang.” The violet haired boy stopped in front of a sliding door made out of metal sheets in what appeared to be little more than a dump. “Right before cursing me, of course.” He commented as he closed his pale hands behind his back in expectation. When Archie understood the silent command, he struggled forward and his small fist came to knock several repetitions over the surface.

“Wouldn’t she need magic for that?” Irene asked, one of her arms on Archie’s shoulder as they waited. When the door finally opened, a boy a few cycles younger than them stepped out, his hair cut close to his head and his eyes big as he inspected them; the moment his gaze landed on Sherlock, however, he smiled brightly and move aside to let them in. 

“And I’m quite sure she won’t stop there.” The rebel nodded, striding in. The entrance opened up to one of his favourite boltholes. A big warehouse filled with second hand arcade games that had surely seen better decades, and several mismatched people milling about. Strange, bright music was playing on an old recorder towards the back, next to a small screen and couch.

Archie came alive and shook off Irene’s hold, rushing to meet one of his friends there. “What are we doing here then?” The indigo haired girl asked. Both her hands on her waist as her gaze danced around, taking in their questionable surroundings, Greg practically salivated in delight next to her. Too bad they were there for dire circumstances or Sherlock would enjoy hustling him on a pool game or two

“We need the ember.” He answered, smiling haughtily while approaching an old machine. He pulled on a lever, making a panel on the wall twist and open; a small hole revealed several tools and seemingly useless knick knacks inside. The silver gazed extended his hand and took out what appeared to be a small soft doll and a pair of scissors. 

Irene’s frown was practically audible as she stood with crossed arms, looking at him in scepticism. “You mean the ember that almost drained all your powers?” She asked, as he stuffed everything inside his leather coat and stepped aside. One of his shoulders came up in a shrug when he turned to them.

Greg came to join them, an honest frown on his brow. “Oh, yeah!” He said, throwing his arms up, tone not at all thrilled. “Like whoever that was is just going to hand it over.” Greg commented, and Sherlock answered with a withering look to his incredulity. There was so much they didn’t know about the direness of the situation —that _he_ didn’t know yet— but the identity of his magic-stealer was clear to him; and if there was anyone who could get that ember it was Violet Holmes’ son. Not to mention there was no other option that ended with him not trapped, hiding away from the spell in the island forever.

“If I’m to compete against her and the curse she gave me I’ll need my full powers.”He answered, his hands now in his pockets as well, as if they felt naked without the presence of his magic now. The other two wore twin expressions of worry to the word _‘curse’_ hanging over them like the island’s black storm clouds. “Plus,” He continued. “There’s someone with whom I’d like to have a chat.” The rebel could read in the other’s expressions the multiple questions already forming in their minds; he sighed and resigned himself to a half hour worth of stupid or —as yet— unanswered questions during the walk to their destination. 

Just when Greg was about to shatter the silence and engage the interrogation mode, the voice of Archie was heard from the back of the warehouse. “Irene!” He exclaimed, the other kid perched on the sofa and both of them with gaze fixed on the ratty television in interest. “Come look!” He said, beckoning them closer.

The man on the screen carried a microphone and was standing outside the castle; the beast statue standing behind him as he agitatedly reported the breaking news of Auradon as he did every mid-morning. Sherlock hated the idiot and his _‘professionally objective’_ opinions on John’s reign.

_‘The sleeping spell is spreading through the kingdom and still no one knows who is responsible or what do they want, the royal-_ ’ He said his voice through he speakers, on the images several people were seen sleeping on the most unlikely places and forms, as if they had suddenly decided on spontaneous nap time. There wasn’t a single thing about it that was logical or natural. 

The three of them stared in disbelief. “We need to move.” Sherlock was quick to step away, just after taking a very small moment to stop and ruffle Archie’s brown and coloured hair in approval. Irene and Greg rushed to his step, leaving the boy behind and setting their faces to determination.

“And what’ve we gotta do?” Lestrade asked, crackling his knuckles inside the fingerless gloves, as if already thirsty for _‘messing someone up’_ as he always so very eloquently put it and Irene was not slacking either, her long dark blue hair already done into a perfect bun; her brand of _‘battle stations’_. For Sherlock it was enough to turn his collar up and make sure to not forget the calculations of variables he had listed in order for this to work. 

“Deal with the devil.” He replied, the words were ominous and followed them like ghosts of the undead as they left the safety of the small hide out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear what you think.


	5. Chapter 4: Death, He Whispered

[ ](https://ibb.co/gdX0D51)

> _ Death may be well defined by the act of dying, of ceasing to exist;  
>  but it could also markthe moment of the end, the most final and inevitable  
>  of all destinations. A path that villains and victims alike, must take. _

He knew Mary was coming for him next. There was no question about it. The counts of people affected by the spell became larger as the events grew closer and closer to the palace. It left the king in no position other than to do something about it, although what exactly he _could_ do, was yet to be determined. In just a matter of minutes Mary had managed to put half the kingdom to sleep and _this_ was the moment his friends —specially his boyfriend who was arguably the most powerful sorcerer they had at their disposal, right there with Lady Hudson— had chosen to just vanish off the edge of the world. John passed a hand through his face to try and rid it from the strain the situation was causing him. 

He stood up, away from the light casted by the lamp on the large wooden desk and approached the windows behind it, not able to stand any of the prints and papers strewn on the smooth surface at the moment. All those hours perched over them, attempting to not let the realm fall into chaos, —made more difficult with every passing day— seemed utterly wasted now. Not to mention he appeared to have been ignorant —and still was, since _‘knowing’_ didn’t mean _‘understanding’_ — about a big list of things happening around him.

The book he had found on his bedroom while looking for clues of his boyfriend’s whereabouts still clung to his mind. The same book Sherlock had left —more like finished reading and then promptly forgotten about its physical existence completely— spoke of some troubling secrets left ignored or hidden by the royalty for cycles and cycles, spells neglected to get fixed or neutralised scattered around all of them as if everything else wasn’t already enough to deal with. The mild row he had had with Mike when he found out the ginger had known about it hung in his shoulders, despite how logical his reasons had sounded.

In light of all that, and the rate with which Mary was advancing, there really was no time to prepare an elaborate plan, much as Mike would loath to accept; and a few precautions were as much as they could manage with The Defender of Light at the wrong side of the kingdom visiting one of her non-magical sisters. All the physical entrances to the castle had been undeniably blocked, and every guard still available was standing in some strategic post ready to defend the royal family and their fortress from the oncoming storm if need be, but John wasn’t naive enough to believe that would be able to stop a curse from Violet’s sceptre. 

He would be lying if he said the mystery of his missing friends wasn’t gnawing at his soul too. Sherlock probably would have figured out what was happening, and by whose hand by now, and John expected they would have gone into hiding somewhere, or most likely for them into destruction mode; but there hadn’t been any reports from defiance or confrontation from Mike’s informants. All of them had just vanished, leaving him there with no means of rescue or aid for both them and himself. The blonde sighed as his hands curled up in fists; he just hoped they were unharmed; specially since Mary was probably going after him too.

Waiting for her to show up would accomplish nothing but make them more vulnerable, possibly victims of the same fate as the rest of the kingdom. If Sherlock were there he would be yelling to the heavens how stupid of a course of action standing on the balcony with the biggest target on his forehead was. But there was still a part of John that wished to understand, that wished to erase the betrayal and suspicion drawn in his mind which he knew neither of them deserved to forget. It was as close as a physical need as he had experienced, —humans and magical beings alike excelling at denial— and he felt he owed it to his kingdom to at least get an explanation for all this destruction.

He sighed to the vision of the kingdom past the panels of his balcony doors, fighting against his body’s desire to let hope grow inside him in any way. Allowing its vines to consume him now would be the worst course of action he could employ, yet its call was impossible to resist. An unmitigated disaster waiting to happen.

* * *

When Sherlock crossed the threshold his senses were attacked with nothing but complete chaos. The multiple bookshelves lining the walls were stacked to the point of overflow while several of its tomes and scrolls laid discarded on the floor by the fall from high shelves. There wasn't a single space unoccupied by some questionable object which showed no signs of having been used for several moon cycles. The violet haired boy had never been there before —usually going out of his way to avoid contact with its inhabitant and his simultaneously leering and dead-eyed stare, despite the fact that Moriarty had often made use of his services— but it didn’t take a genius to notice the place was way past its days of glory. Left uncared for by unreachable magic after the fall from the villain empire thirteen cycles prior. Sherlock still wasn’t exactly keen for a visit now either, but he had run out of alternative paths to take. Sitting on the chair on the far end from the entrance across the table, taking the fortune teller’s place of control, he waited for its owner to arrive. 

The man entered the room walking slowly. Evidently aware of the intruder trespassing in his lair by the unlocked door and drawn colourful beaded curtain. He stepped inside with his hands inside his pockets, exuding a controlled dominance over his person and his surroundings. His dead eyes framed by round spectacles analysed the situation, probably attempting to _read_ him as he could so very accurately read him in return. 

“Shouldn’t you be in Auradon?” Magnussen said, the flat tone only slightly tilted at the end, showing how surprised he truly was at finding Violet Holmes’ son draped casually where he had never voluntarily been before, and where he had no clear business or possibility of being at the moment.

Sherlock turned his kaleidoscope eyes to him haughtily. “I _am_ in Auradon.” He replied, his slender fingers fidgeting with the trinkets on the wooden table. “Although the scummy backside.” The words were descriptive, not exactly derogative, but he could still see the moment they landed on the other’s face. 

Magnussen approached, the candles making his sharp features more defined and stark against the darkness inhabited by the rest of the room. A violent face even on the softest of illumination. The owner often came across as a deceivingly good mannered, educated business man, but Sherlock had no illusions of just how much of a predator the man was.

“Is it?” He asked, taking sure steps and placing himself on the other chair, amused expression condescendingly smiling at the violet haired boy as he crossed his hands over the surface of the table top and waited.

“In my opinion, yes.” Sherlock answered, not even turning his face to regard him. His attention drawn by the voodoo incantations displayed on the walls in an array of colours and multiple handwriting. Possibly remnants of the few trapped fools, now nothing more than dull lights inside the rows of little hanged men swinging on a threat from the ceiling. The rebel frowned at their empty expression. 

“Look at you,” His thick accent was not enough to disguise the _‘appreciating’_ from his lazy words as his dilated pupils rove over him, not enough to decieve the rebel at least. “Little Sherly finally all grown up.” The man continued. Sherlock was very glad he had told Irene and Greg to wait outside and keep an eye on Archie, there was no way they would have been able to reach a civilised deal if the oldest of them suddenly decided to take offence on his behalf and serve him up a trademark blow to the nose.

“Don’t-” He answered, a strange, almost forgotten sensation rising on him as his temper rose with no purple magical dragon to follow it, the link to which he was so used severed by the events of the last twenty four hours. Another sign that the blue ember was indispensable if he was ever going to be _him_ again. If the curse didn’t kill him first, John was sure to finish the job for being reckless and doing exactly what he had promised he wouldn’t do anymore. “Don’t call me that.” He emphasised, lending a sliver of disgust to his words as his hands curled up tightly.

“ _Mrs_. Watson, then?” Magnussen was quick to reply, his dead eyes boring into him in search for a reaction. “Is that all you are now?” He asked, clearly aiming for ridicule, prodding for a soft spot to jab his sticky fingers in. The violet haired boy wasn’t impressed however, he had no time nor any real reason to feel insulted. Yes, he was half fairy of darkness, the kingdom will just have to get over it.

“I want you to give me the address to your friend’s favourite room.” He said, cutting through the other’s entertainment, making his eyebrows rise slightly in surprise, only to lower back into a passive stare as his shark-like teeth showed through his smirk. There were a lot of questions to which the silver gazed hadn’t found answers yet, but he was aware of what Magnussen and said friend had done for Moriarty, —and his mother, if his suspicions were correct, way before that— and the only way he had to fight fire right now was to ignite it on its very source. 

“I have plenty of friends,” The man replied, casually scratching the bright yellow beard on his face, unable to hide its true colour under the dome. He stretched forward and snatched an ancient book from the violet haired boy’s hands. Leaning back again and using wraith-like fingers to open it. “And none of them would appreciate such indiscretion.” His said, just before his tongue came out to slowly wet the tip of his digits to pass the pages without looking at their content. 

“Oh, I believe you can be more indiscreet than you let on, Magnussen.” Sherlocksmiled benignly and took care not to give way to any emotion on his tone. Dropping the sound until the words appeared more like a hushed promise. “Given the right incentive.” He said.

“So how are you convincing me then, _Mr. Holmes_?” Magnussen took the bait immediately; and the rebel tried his best to contain the satisfaction of fooling him from his expression. “I’ll admit I’m quite looking forward to it,” The other man continued after a pause, still with a hint of suspicion —he wasn’t a stupid man after all— on his voice, as if pushing to see how long he would allow the bluff to go. Magnussen leaned forward once more, the book discarded on the floor as he slowly adjusted his spectacles. “I’ve never had a prince before.” He concluded.

_‘And you still won’t.’_ Sherlock thought as he stood up. He reached inside his leather coat and retrieved a small object; he then casually let it drop unto the smooth surface of the table in a heap. The older man frowned in mock confusion, but seemed entirely unimpressed by the soft voodoo doll and silver gazed boy who attempted to make a difference with it. “Nice sentiment.” Magnussen answered, “But I’m afraid I will have to decline,” His words oozed from his lips as a finger jabbed the soft belly of the small offer. “With the barrier up this wouldn’t exactly be a smart business.” He wasn’t wrong. The rebel knew some voodoo trinket and a half-hearted promise was not going to make the best blackmailer of the kingdom give up any secret; except maybe how to get out of his sight immediately. 

Which is why the boy didn’t stop there. He grabbed a pair of scissors and with a swift movement he cut a curl of purple hair off. Tossing it on top of the tan yarn almost triumphantly, as a haughty grin appeared over his sharp features. The other’s eyebrows rose, and a small expression of approval painted his face at the prospect. 

_‘Got‘cha!’_ Sherlock thought.

* * *

“He finally lost his mind.” Lestrade commented, his strong arms crossed over his chest as he angrily slumped on the brick wall next to Appledore Fortune’s entrance. Gloomy light fell from the sky and casted shadows over the wet surfaces of the Isle. At least it had stopped raining. 

Irene, who was much more gracefully leaning next to him, inspected her surroundings and turned to look at him, a frown forming on her perfectly defined eyebrows. “You know how that wanker is,” Greg explained, he was aware his words were delivered too quickly to appear calm, but he couldn’t hold them in; Sherlock was taking awfully long in there and the thought of something going wrong had him wishing he could just punch someone. “There’ll be a catch.” He said. “There always is.” The boy sighed, pushing off from the wall to pace small circles on the pavement.

“I think he knows what he’s doing.” She replied, but her expression betrayed how confident she truly was at her own affirmation. Both of them knew the reputation the most powerful fortune teller of the island had, and judging by what they had witnessed when they lived there, it was very much earned. He was a dangerous individual, even without the aid of his magic, and Sherlock wasn’t exactly at peak mental condition right now either.

“Does he?” The boy asked. The digits inside his fingerless gloves twitching as he recognised the same anxiousness on the indigo haired girl’s body as well. “He didn’t really see Mary coming, now did he?” It sounded harsh, even to his own ears, but he was still having trouble believing Mary would be able to fool all of them, specially someone who seemed to know what her position entailed intimately. He was basically her replacement, for fuck’s sake! Sherlock might have suspected, —and suspected he did; Greg had heard the words fall from his very lips, although at the time he believed him to be delirious. Turns out the kid is right even when he’s not trying to be— but not seeing this particular outcome on the horizon, even on the realm of possibility, was quite out of character on his part. 

“No, he didn’t, I suppose.” Irene replied, her legs were crossed casually and one of her arms rested on the other in front of her torso in support. She pursed her red lips as if to rid herself from a sour thought. “Although I don’t think that has anything to do with intellectual prowess, to be honest.” Her olive eyes shone with meaning behind the statement. The boy didn’t need an explanation for that.

“Guess not.” He replied, the grimace on his face growing when he pondered to what end would that lead them. Their purple haired friend was surely incapable of doing anything by halves, unfortunately for them that also included self-destruction. The girl shrugged, offering no more insight as she returned her attention to the alleys they knew so well. The both of them fell into heavy silence after the words were done. 

As he was distracted attempting to chase himself away from the thought of dread he knew was bubbling on the surface of his skin while simultaneously watching as Archie inspected various nearby abandoned boxes for forgotten treasures, Greg heard a very distinct noise in the distance. “Wait-” He said, shattering the uneasy tranquility and placing an arm over the other’s arm as if to shush even the slight sound of her breathing. After a few moments, they noticed the rumble more clearly. 

“Is that-?” Irene turned her face to him in recognition, coming to life as the two of them straightened in alarm and sprinted from their posts.

“The bikes!” Greg exclaimed. Running towards the clearing where they had parked them. He turned the corner of a cluttered alley, almost slamming his foot on a pile of crates, to see the last thing they needed at the moment. A couple of pirates sitting astride the vehicles, their hands griping the handles with determination as the engines roared under them. 

“Wow,” Irene lamented as they approached. “Rookie mistake?” Her irony flew right past Greg as his vision turned crimson red in wrath when he recognised the face grinning at him. His dark heavy boots slapping on the pavement, —rain drops flying everywhere from the earlier storm— with every step he took in their direction. 

“Long time no see, Greg!” The man greeted. The long, deep red coat over his shoulders was hanging behind him, and his bright green eyes shone with unmitigated mischief. The other man beside him snickered at the comment as he started backing from the wall on one of the motorbikes.

“Get off my bike, Trevor.” Lestrade growled, ready to launch himself at them and wrestle them off their —technically _John’s_ — property. If there was someone he could not find it in himself to tolerate, even a tiny sliver, was Victor _fucking_ Trevor appearing out of nowhere in their lives again to mess everything up. Specially considering the fact that after his perfect-teethed mocking smile, cold calculating teal eyes were sure to follow; and that was a problem too many for them to handle.

“No,” The other responded, faux apologetic expression transforming his mouth into a pout. “I don’t think I will.” Victor winked and drove in reverse. Rushing away as he tossed a finger at them. “See you never!” He exclaimed, his ginger hair reflected what little sun had managed to peak between the grey clouds as the two pirates disappeared into an adjacent back alley while the noise of the engines faded.

“Over the roofs!” Irene barked to Lestrade, as she took to running after them to not loose them from sight. The boy grabbed a secure grip over a stray rope hanging from the plumbing of a tall building. After confirming it would hold his weight, he expertly hauled himself up towards the roof; climbing as he had many times before and making use of any imperfections on the wall to reach the top in mere seconds.

He swiftly ran through the roof and jumped across from structure to stairs and other buildings. Rolling and rushing towards the loud sound of the motorbikes, as his heart pounded inside his strong chest. He ignored the satisfaction that doing this again awoke in him in favour of focusing on finding those bastards. He couldn’t wait to break the idiot’s perfect nose. 

When he reckoned he was ahead of them enough to ambush them, he wrapped his fingers on a railing and slid down, planting both his feet firmly on the pavement below only to see the bikes turn a steep corner and charge right towards him. For a moment he was sure they were going to run him over, but they passed on by without slowing down. Victor’s laughter howled over the sound of the engine as they got lost between the sea of citizens stepping away from the line of collision. “Fuck!” Greg exclaimed.

Irene arrived running, skidding to a halt when she saw him, both of them panting as they shared an expression of frustration. “Sherlock is going to _kill_ us.” She commented, neither of them very keen for the sulk of epic proportions this would cause in their friend, probably adding to the already worst week of his life. Still, they had no other choice but to accept defeat and return before the boy had to come and look for them. 

Irene started walking, her strut particularly less prominent as they reached the outside of Magnussen’s place. Both of them stood awkwardly, waiting for the other to appear as Archie seemed not to have noticed —or cared— they were gone. Greg just hoped they didn’t spoil all the trouble they went through to get a deal from the master of blackmails by losing their means of escape. 

After just a few minutes said violet haired boy came out looking satisfied. However, the silver eyes took one look at them and his expression instantly turned. “Any chance our bikes are parked in a locked garage?” He asked, a deep violet eyebrow arched as he stepped closer. Lestrade had the suspicion an answer was not needed at that point. 

“Yeah,” He said anyway. “Not so much.” His hands immediately went into his pockets as a grimace appeared on his face. Sherlock’s gaze turned to Irene, probably reading who were the ones who had taken them from the folds of her dress or the wear on the high heeled boots. The exasperated scoff which left his lips attempted to compete with ancient tragedies. 

“So the bridge it is then.” He commented, having resigned to the only other way they had to get back to the kingdom and stop Mary from causing any more trouble, and not the type of which they liked. Greg suspected it also had something to do with him needing to lay down a plan of escape if they managed to lift the ember off their intended target. 

“We still need the remote to open the barrier.” The girl offered. Lestrade mentally kicked himself, that hadn’t even occurred to him. Not only had they just handed the keys to the kingdom to a couple of pirates who had been known for scheming with the violet haired boy’s murderous sister to destroy it on a silver platter, they had effectively stranded themselves in a magic-less island designed to keep villain kids from breaking out.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.” Sherlock replied casually, waving a hand in dismissal as he moved away from the entrance of the fortune parlour. Irene frowned in confusion to his right, and Greg knew his face must be making quite a similar expression at the other boy’s nonchalance. The rebel sighed, suffering from having to spell out why they shouldn’t worry about Victor and Sebastian riding out for Auradon. “Archie?” He said, an approving smile growing as he looked at the kid in expectation. 

“I lifted it off you,” Archie said apologetically, reaching for his jacket and presenting said device up as evidence of his misbehaving. “I thought it could be useful.” His innocent smile and big eyes almost took away the possible belief of that boy managing to expertly take something from the likes of them and being completely undetected,— _almost_ completely undetected. 

“Sweet!” Lestrade couldn’t help to exclaim, ruffling the brunette locks on the kid’s head as he laughed. He couldn’t deny he was proud of having taught him something useful. 

“You’re making it very hard to berate you for this.” Irene commented. Chuckling along with them in relief as she lifted the remote from his small fingers and secured it on her thigh-holder. 

The four of them walked through the alleys in direction for the next and final stop, neither of them daring to comment how uncertain they were at the nature of it. “So, did you have any luck?” Lestrade asked, choosing to focus his mind and efforts in their intention, the _endgame_. Working to block out any other emotion but determination to claw its way into his brain. 

Sherlock took an object from the inside pocket of his dark leather coat and presented it forward, the silver and blue key dangled from a heavy chain as light bounced off it, giving an almost otherworldly glow. If Lestrade didn’t vividly remember where he was currently standing, he would almost call it magic. “Luck didn’t have anything to do with it.” Sherlock said, his smile incredibly smug for someone who was about to face off with the most inevitable of destinies.

* * *

The entrance alone was already promising to live up to the legends. Enclosed at the end of an old abandoned underground parking lot, —now an unused remnant of the days prior dome— the surroundings didn’t look like much, the polished cement floor stretched far as could be predicted and the low ceiling over their heads made their steps echo on the confined space, yet none of it was particularly special. Just another low end suburban hideout now barely used by gangs or homeless criminals. 

However, the big hole on one of the walls in front of them was enough to convey their destination was no laughing matter. It gaped at them like a mouth ready to devour anything that dared enter its dark cave-like insides. The black tunnel of _nothing_ ahead caused the hairs on his arms and nape to stand up, as if his body were familiar with the desolation inside and were attempting to warm him against going in. Sherlock had no other choice but to ignore the suggestion. 

He stood in front of it, the artificial lights above them flicking unstably, key dangling on a threat from his hand, and he couldn’t help but think how ironic it was that _this_ —Mary, John, Auradon— was what had finally brought him there, at the practical gates of hell itself. Its mere existence had always been a mystery weighing on his mind, luring him in; a myth he had wanted to explore for himself since he had first heard about it when he was five cycles old and still stumbling under the tutelage of Jim bloody Moriarty. It was typical of his fortune that he now found himself there at last, not to quench or satisfy his curiosity as he had believed he would, but in order to _save_ something; and that, more than anything else, caused no small amount of dread to attach to his bones and arteries. Apparently, the curse hadn’t been the only thing that had managed to change him.

Sherlock took a step forward and inspected the singed rim of the entrance and the wall surrounding it, recognising a magical hand as its creator by the mere brutality of the destruction left behind. He delicately traced a finger over the cracks, feeling them almost brim with damaged brick; a violation to the matter itself. No mortal would be able to tear open a physical passageway such as this, not to mention it would prove straight up impossible for them to connect it with the famed reality at the other end of the tunnel. The whole scene screamed at him to walk away, forget the hopeless quest and find an alternative, whatever that may be, it would be preferable —counting as red flag number two— but his feet stood rooted to the edge, not able to turn around despite how discouraging the calculations seemed in his head.

The others were standing behind him, staring ahead as if caught in a freezing spell by the daunting image. The violet haired boy was able to detect a slight shifting of weight on Lestrade’s feet, clearly anxious about going forward. “Do we really have to go in there?” He asked, almost confirming the other’s deduction as he attempted to conceal the shakiness in his voice. Irene pursed her lips at the suggestion, but remained quiet. 

“You’re allowed to go back.” He replied. Sherlock could understand perfectly his friends’ wish to escape. It would be stupid to go in there, guaranteed to end in tragedy for anyone involved. There was a reason why Magnussen was willing to give him the means of entrance just so he wouldn’t have to face his so called _‘friend’_ himself. But the silver gazed didn’t have the luxury of other options at the moment. It was either death or fire in his veins. 

Irene crossed her arms in disbelief, her frown displaying her faith in such a thing happening. “Yeah, like we’re letting you go alone.” She said, her voice flat against the echo. “John would have us gutted if we let you get yourself killed by the god of the underworld.” She made no move to approach him, just as Sherlock straightened up from his inspecting crouch and turned the collar of his leather coat up to his cheekbones. 

“He’s got no magic.” The rebel replied, shrugging despite feeling his own jaw set tight at the mere thought of how scarce their chances were regardless. He took a step past the threshold, whipping a small torch out of his pocket as he turned his stormy eyes away from the tunnel to regard them. Waiting impatiently to see whether they will actually follow through with their promise and enter.

“Neither do you.” Lestrade grumbled but went inside the tunnel anyway, sighing away in reluctance; as if Sherlock weren’t completely aware the magic on which he had learnt to rely so much in the past moon cycles had vanished away as an option for him the second his mother’s sceptre had been turned against his chest. The rebel made a gesture to proceed and hurried inside the black unknown, hearing Greg’s boots resonate behind him within the cave. The indigo haired girl rolled her eyes but followed them too. 

The place got significantly darker and more spacious the deeper they walked through it —judging by the loud travelling echo of any small movement they dared to make. Sherlock’s silver eyes tried inspecting their surroundings, hoping to detect any danger and avoid finding themselves ambushed by shadows in the dark, —the last thing he needed was being caught off guard _again_ in less than a day— yet the light coming from the torch made but a feeble and failed attempt at illuminating anything beyond their own feet and immediate floor before them, plunging them in near complete blackness. 

As they walked, a heavy feeling settled in his bones, as if the very air was heavy, _cloying_ with it. Unable to identify the sensation and unwilling to give it voice, he continued in silence. 

“This place gives me the creeps.” Greg said, cursing loudly when he almost tripped over his own feet behind him. The violet haired boy made a shushing noise at him and returned to navigating through what seemed an irrational maze of caves of confusing structure. He could not determine the reason, but something told him they had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

He frowned and searched the area with his hand stretched before him, choosing to letthe boy’s previous comment unanswered, obvious declarations never sitting well within him; specially at the moment, with doom hanging over them, following like a dark cloud. The place wasn’t creepy, it was _suffocating_. The very atmosphere of it sent waves of pinprick dread through his veins, the need to find the end of the smothering lack of oxygen growing stronger with every second passed. Most thrilling dangerquickly growing into straight up aversion.

A few moments went by, the sound of their feet hitting the ground the only thing breaking the mirage of floating through an empty vacuum. Yet, it seemed it was the perfect time for Irene to decide she wanted to have a tedious conversation. “By the way,” She whispered, her voice low and serious, made all the more ominous reverberated by the desolate space. “How the hell did you managed to get Magnussen to just hand it over?” The words appeared nonchalant, but had been carefully chosen. A question which was clearly eating away at her since he had appeared in front of them with almost all of their problems solved in the form of a single key.

“I made him an offer.” He said, turning his grey eyes towards the both of them at his back, but he could barely make out their shapes, let alone their expressions. He shifted forward once more, and continued with his search. Noticing how the heavy coat on his shoulders was no longer able to keep the cold sensation from seeping into his bones.

“And what was it? To make him say _‘yes’_.” She asked stubbornly. Refusing to let him avoid the answer as he usually did. He admitted his friends may be too used to his antics; he wasn’t sure he liked it. “Did you promise him the kingdom? Cause there may be a line for that.” The joke came as a disguise for something she didn’t really want to consider, let alone ask him; but he could deduce from her tone she had forced herself to do it anyway.

The violet haired shrugged. “Just my soul.” He answered. It hadn’t exactly been easy to get Magnussen to accept nonetheless, but he had known he had him the moment he recognised the spark twinkling in his eyes when he considered owning Sherlock’s most permanent and complete existence. His token reluctance and protestations had been just that. _Moron._

“What?” Both Greg and Irene exclaimed, drawing an exasperated sigh from the boy’s lips as they made a horribly loud noise. So much for not announcing their presence to the whole kingdom. He ran a slender hand through his purple curls, brittle and bleak as they had become. Another sign he was a cursed man borrowing seconds from the magic-less dome above them.

“Don’t be dramatic,” He replied, waving away the whole exchange as he focused on finding the correct way back towards their path. He felt satisfied when the stench of damp and decay rose as they approached their destination. They were close, he could _feel_ it. “I’ll buy it back.” Sherlock assured.

The others were not so readily convinced, however. “Yeah?” Lestrade asked, “With what?” His voice sounded far away, but he saw the contours of their figures right behind him, keeping up with his strides. “What could possibly be more valuable than that?” It was a valid question, one he would have trouble answering were he really inclined to explain his whole plan. Yet something more pressing saved him from ever having to make something up to reply. Sherlock’s step bumped into something on the ground, something hard which made him topple forward, almost losing his balance to fall face first into whatever had caused his stumble. He swiftly directed the light of the torch towards it, only to recoil his feet as the other two gasped at the sight it revealed. Greg letting out an imaginative curse. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he knelt down, taking in the fascinating —if a bit surprising— presence of human bones scattered in heaps before them. He could feel the corner of his own mouth curl up as he extended his hands and ran a finger across the smooth planes to shake off the dust gathered. They appeared to be several cycles into the ground by then, clear remains of the fools that had dared to enter the place from which there was no accounted exit. At least no _living_ exit. The same place to which they were going with nothing but an abstract plan as guarantee.

“We’re close.” He said, standing up and dusting off his coat. The light directed at his friends showed incredulous faces, which he promptly ignored. Their chance for turning back had come and gone, and if they were to have any hope of getting out of there with their lives, let alone their sanity, they needed to work as they did best. The rebel stepped over what he could avoid of the remains, completely banning from his mind the few crunching noises he could hear when one of them missed a step. The appropriateness of there being dead bodies at the entrance would be irritating if it weren’t a stark reminder of their most probable future. 

A few meters further the stone cave walls started bleeding into polished marble, dark and cold to the touch as they navigated by touch more than sight. The echos which sounded overwhelmingly powerful before were now hollow as they bounced back at them from a narrower opening. It was until he almost bumped headfirst into the giant black doorway that Sherlock understood how close to the entrance they really were.

The double doors stretched towards the high ceiling in monumental height and intimidation. The marbled details framed it between hard, wide columns with a couple of torches hanging way above their eye level. They had started burning the second his skin had made contact with the surface of the doors, as if awoken under his attention; casting blue light over their faces as they stared at them. The cyan fire shining from them way too familiar for the silver eyes that had encountered its kind several times outside the isle and in his nightmares since. The rules against magic seemed to be a bit loose there, since there was only so much one could make to stifle the powers of someone such as the creature guarded inside. Sherlock didn’t fear them. For him, they signalled the solutions awaiting for him at the other side.

He took the key out from his pocket once more. Clutching the skull-carved bow and plunging the slender part into the opening at the centre of it, hands almost shaking in what he hoped was anticipation. He turned to the others then, watching as they waited anxiously for him to twist it open. Greg was putting his brave face forward, determined to get it over with, and Irene’s expression spoke of her worry for him instead of her own self as they stared back. The violet haired boy frowned in momentary confusion, then shook his head to rid it of distractions and delicately turned the key. Both doors gave way immediately to his push, opening to a vast room which appeared even darker than the tunnel had been. But as they stepped inside the fog cleared and, as if a switch had been pulled a blinding, bright light attacked their eyes, causing them to stumble back. 

As they adjusted to the unforgiving garishness of the illumination after so long in the total dark, Sherlock analysed their surroundings for the first time. The tall, imposing walls revealed rows and rows of cabinets upon cabinets, what must be thousands of them as small little metal doors intending to convey their fate. Sherlock didn’t have to wonder what was inside each of them, and even if his heart pounded loudly in his ears at the sight, he refused to be intimidated by a mausoleum with a grandeur complex. At least that’s was he chose to tell himself. 

He stepped further into the room, small steps not unlike ones those a condemned man would take towards the guillotine. He took in the cold seeping inside his skin from the sterile and clinical space; its fingers tightening in his extremities and closing in around his throat. The whispering lights hummed and flickered way above their heads, as if commenting on their presence. Beside being surrounded by nothing but death Sherlock felt several eyes watching him from around him. He didn’t particularly wish to think them anything more than his friends’.

He regarded Greg, who stared uneasily at what was in front of him, glancing at it as if the danger would jump out of the unmoving walls and ensnare him into a seductive curse. The atmosphere was worse than the enclosing tunnel, Sherlock concluded, there was really no reason for them to stay a second longer than necessary.

The violet haired boy hurried forward, even if his mind protested against such a thing, and ripped opened drawers and doors. Not caring one bit if he disturbed the peace guarded there. Searching in every box or surface he could find for a clue of the whereabouts of what they were there to steal. His focus narrowed as his brain fought hard to shake off the impending doom he felt closing in on his back. Breathing on his shoulders as he made quick work in his tense task, growing desperate by the second as the un-physical presence became bigger and bigger behind him. 

He half wondered how his friends had managed not to say something about what they surely should be seeing, certain as he was then that the sensation was personified, and real, and closer. Ever closer. Consuming him until Sherlock could feel bony fingers closing around his shoulders, violently pulling him and somehow dragging him into a land of darkness and oblivion.

* * *

“No, no!” John exclaimed into his mobile, “I want the Auradon knights guarding _the citizens_ , not some stupid relic.” The hand holding the phone was growing numb from the sheer pressure of his relentless grip, his knuckles white and stretched to the point of becoming painful. At the other end of the line, one of the commanding officers of the Royal Guard was making a great attempt at souring his mood even further by insisting on ludicrous plans of action. “Yes, I know its historic val-” The blonde said, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration as he paced the length of his royal study and listened to the other’s arguments.

The panic had already swept through the kingdom, reaping fear and recklessness into those who remained unaffected so far. Impossible for any of them to predict when the next attack would be, they were forced to pull the security thin to cover more ground, which resulted in very inefficient defence; and will continue to be so as long as their magical wielders remained at large. “Well, not everyone’s asleep!” He replied. “Just get those guards where they can protect the people, and get me Lady Hudson on the phone.” His orders sounded final enough, so he put down the mobile and ended the call, confident as he could be given the situation that they would do their best protecting what’s important. 

John let himself fall once more unto the big wooden chair in front of his desk. Planting both elbows on the surface and supporting his own head on his hands. He took a deep breath as he tried to cleanse his mind from worries of his friends and the future of the realm. The feeling of despair growing. The summer sun was in full swing outside his window, making him feel even more suffocated inside the white dress shirt from which he had been unable to change since this whole thing had begun, his closed blue eyes hurt from the pressure he was inflicting on them with the heel of his hands. 

After a few moments, he could hear steps coming from behind him, it was a testament of his state how he hadn’t heard his advisor enter the chamber. He sighed in relief at the presence of the other as if his support and counsel were an oasis in a never ending drought. “Mike, thank goodness.” He said, his vision still concealed form the room as he spoke. “Has anyone seen Mary?” The question was futile, he knew; the silence at the other end of the conversation proof enough. If the girl had turned up somewhere, it would be impossible for anyone to account for it, the devastation she left behind would be the only way of knowing it had even happened. John still wondered how Molly had managed to escape the spell. “Do we have her list of demands?” He asked.

“Just one.” A feminine voice answered, making the blonde freeze on his seat. Unless Mycroft had a well guarded secret, that was certainly _not_ him. He lowered his hands and turned his head to look at the figure behind him. Mary was standing confidently, framed by the window doors behind her and clad all in vibrant rose leather. The cape behind her hung from her shoulders in a waterfall of black feathers and her head shone cyan and pink under the sunlight. In her left hand the sceptre was gripped as a dangerous lifeline. The only thing John could think about was how _wrong_ it looked. “I demand my life back.” She said, her tone flat as her expression betrayed not a single emotion. 

“Mary?” Said the king. He was quick to stand up, not comfortable on the vulnerable position as long as the girl continued to speak violently. “What _the hell_ is all this?” He demanded, unable to keep the confusion away from his words. His hand turned into a fist as he felt a corner of his mouth tug up, the enraged smile he was hopeless to avoid in such situations. “If you wanted to get back at me for what I did, I get it,” He started, because he couldn’t exactly fault her for the resentment he had sow on her life. “But the kingdom is-”

“Oh, John, grow up.” She cut him off. An exasperated sigh being released from her dark pink lips as she stared at him in scepticism; as if she weren’t able to believe he could be that gullible. “This isn’t about us.” She said, taking a step towards him, her big blue eyes surrounded in soft pink shadow, tracking over his frame coldly. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t fix it.” Her hand came up and rested on his arm, somehow John didn’t find the gesture affectionate. “I can wake everyone up right now, make them forget this ever happened.” Her voice took an edge he had never heard on her before, frozen and calculating. The juxtaposition made the anger seep out of him immediately to be replaced with mounting distress. They had been playdate mates, friends, more, in each other’s lives since they were toddlers and now John had the sinking, growing feeling he had never really known her at all. “You are clearly not fit to rule, John.” She said. 

A suspicion took hold inside of him, making his mind grasp at the only thing left that could match what he saw with what he thought he knew about his friend. If Sherlock were present he’d berate him for trying to twist evidence to fit his preconceived theory; but the rebel _wasn’t_ , so the king was left to take a careful hold of the hand in his arm and enclosed it in both his own. “Did someone put a spell on you?” He asked; calm, soothing voice which he hoped sounded non threatening. “Just tell me who and-” He offered, but the girl snatched her hand back and scoffed at him.

“And what, John?” She challenged, a sardonic grin breaking out in her face at his apparent surprise. “What if I told you it was _Sherlock_ who did this?” Mary’s expression turned curious then, watching his own reaction like a hawk ready to pounce on vulnerability. “What would you do then?” She said. 

The blonde took a step away as if singed, distancing himself from the mere thought of her daring to even suggest such a thing. His eyebrows growing closer to each other as he stared at her in incredulity, “I’d say the hair dye has gone to your head.” He replied flatly, his sympathy slowly running out as he felt personally offended by something which he knew wouldn’t sound as ludicrous to anyone else. 

“All of this is real now.” Mary replied; she turned around and walked towards the balcony behind her, clearly sure he wouldn’t attack her even with her back turned away from him. The king knew they had prepared for this, he was to press a single button and all the guards outside his room would come running in his aid and try to arrest her. But seeing her now, he recognised how futile that would be, most definitely resulting in all of them lost in a land of dreams. At least this way, he had a chance of figuring out how to stop her —not that his attempts held much promise at the moment. She extended her arms, showing him the extent of her transformation, a show put on in mere mocking of certain other three individuals. She brought a hand up to bring a strand of bright pink hair away from her face and behind her ear. “This _is_ me now.” The declaration sounded as if she were revealing a secret, handing down crucial information and meaning that he wasn’t sharp enough to disperse. He had a feeling Sherlock would fare much better in his place.

“I liked the old Mary better,” John heard himself saying, only noting the irritating tone coming back once the words were out. “She wouldn’t want to hurt Auradon.” He said, watching as her eyes turned away from him, and for just a second he allowed himself to hope he could get through to her. He waited as he saw her shoulders release some of the tension. The blonde then turned his blue gaze to the object in her left hand, a thought crossed his mind of how perhaps parting her with it would get them halfway there. “Just put down the sceptre, and we’ll forget about this.” He said softly, getting closer so he could coax her into letting it go. “We’ll forgive you.” 

Clearly he had been mistaken for the hundredth time in the last twenty four hours, for her demeanour changed completely the second the offer was made. Drawing her body up in outrage as her eyes narrowed at him wildly. “ _Forgive_ me?” She snarled, the sceptre now securely clutched in her dominant hand, as the left came up to push a finger at his chest in warning not to get any further. “No, I don’t think so.” Mary said finally, an ironic smile twisting her lips. “Not after what I did to him.”

The king felt his face blanch at the statement, there was no need to ask who _‘him’_ could be. The air on his lungs deserted him as if he had been dealt a punch to the chest, “What did you do?” He demanded, unable to decide what distressed him the most: the fact that Sherlock could potentially —most assuredly— be injured, or the knowledge that the girl in front of him had been the cause. 

Mary scoffed at his alarm, staring at him with eyes that spoke of disappointment too great from which to move past, the crown on her head glinting under the sunlight. “Sleeping is too good for you.” She declared, her blue eyes opening wide with realisation as the skin around them turned from pink to raven black. Her determination was palpable. “Sleeping is too good for Auradon.” Was the last thing he heard her murmur before she pushed the sceptre in his direction and blinding pain struck him on the abdomen. 

As he fell back, she turned her attention to the vastness of the kingdom outside the balcony and repeated the motion, the flair of white light climbing towards the sky to permeate the whole realm. A few seconds later, John saw her vanish from the balcony through unfamiliar eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, check out my other stories.


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